


leave you with nothing but mist and fog (Coraline AU)

by tomlindrugs



Category: Coraline - All Media Types, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - The Other World, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Minor Character Death, an overwhelming use of the word 'door', especially with songs and theatre plays, i'm sorry in advance, very open
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlindrugs/pseuds/tomlindrugs
Summary: "He will take your life and all you are and all you care for, and he will leave you with nothing but mist and fog. He'll take your joy. And one day you'll wake and your heart and soul will have gone. A husk you'll be, a wisp you'll be, and a thing no more than a dream on waking, or a memory of something forgotten."the coraline inspired AU no one asked for
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi,  
> i'm not sure why i thought this would be a good idea but i had fun writing it so here it is: a coraline inspired AU where louis and harry are the main characters. 
> 
> it's set in a universe that has some elements of the book and the movie, with key scenes and lines included, but other than that it's actually just loosely based on it. i took some liberties with the plot line (for instance it's set in the early 1920s, and none of the characters have button eyes, which might seem like it's defeating the purpose but... you'll see). 
> 
> as you might know, there was no romance whatsoever in the original work, and so that meant changing it up entirely to make their story fit. 
> 
> before i wrote this i thought: how can i make the story of coraline even scarier than it already is? and here's the result... so just as a heads up, this is more of a horror story than anything else - it will not be exclusively focusing on L&H's romantic relationship even though they're the main characters. 
> 
> i hope you'll enjoy this weird crossover, it's all just for fun and all the credit for the original ideas goes to neil gaiman of course, thank you for giving me months worth of nightmares when i was a kid.

**May 1923**

“ _In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through Our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God, our brother Alexander Carvell, and we commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord lift up His countenance upon him and give him peace. Amen.”_

The last _Amen_ resounded among the small crowd gathered around the grave. The voices were low and muffled, almost impossible to tell apart. Men, women and children were dressed in black. The pale figure of the boy’s mother was hidden behind a thin piece of black net hanging from her hat. Her gloved hand carried a pocket handkerchief to her face, which she pressed against her nose and mouth. Her tears stained the cloth as she felt her husband's reassuring presence by her side. She could hear all the condolences addressed to her but couldn’t bring herself to react. It had already been a few days, but it was clear as day that she would never be able to get used to the idea that her only son had died so suddenly, at the twilight of his life, at the age where he should have gone to Oxford; he was so brilliant, so promising and so full of life.

Far away from the little crowd - in fact, so far that one could wonder if he hadn’t actually come to pay his respects to someone else - Louis was standing, tears rolling down his cheeks, retracing the shape of his face, pooling into the hollow of his neck and staining his white linen collar. He was just short of suffocating. He watched with a heavy heart and a tight throat as the preacher threw the first handful of soil into the grave, and he wished the ground would open up under his feet and swallow him whole, so he could end up in his final resting place in his turn. He wrapped his arms around his body, as if that could somehow make him feel more secure. He had no one at his side. The crowd had no idea who he was and he decided it was better that way.

 _They_ didn’t know him, but Louis took pride in the fact that he knew Alexander better - in fact much, much better - that they ever thought they did. Far be it from him to ruin the image they had of the young deceased by introducing himself to them and telling them about their relationship before he passed. Although overwhelmed by grief, he was conscious enough not to forget the norms which ruled the world he lived in.

At the end of the funeral, the people in black scattered, paying their last respects to the parents before heading off. The mother lingered a little longer, as any mother would, and then finally she turned around and left in turn. Her path led her to walk right by where Louis was standing. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, his were still wet and red-rimmed, and she shot him a short glance, full of contempt and disdain, as if she knew, and went on her way down the narrow winding path to join her husband.

Soon, he found himself alone in the cemetery. He approached the grave the way one would walk to the gallows. The tombstone stood in front of him, smooth, cold marble where the engraved words were reinforcing the reality he still had a hard time assimilating.

Here lies

Alexander Carvell

January 13th 1906- May 2nd 1923

Our Darling Son

_Sleep on now, and take your rest._

_Matthew 26:45_

He'll come back a few days later to put a little wooden dove on it. They each used to have one, which they kept on them at all times as it was small and discreet enough to fit in a pocket. Louis had just given him his. It was Alexander who’d told him about their significance. According to him, doves symbolized the love of a lifetime. They were often shown in pairs at weddings for that very reason. Doves mated for life; if one of them died, the other one, overcome with heartbreak and grief, wouldn’t even try to find a new partner.

*

It was a particularly cold month of June in the small town of Upper Redley.

The sky was almost always grey, it rained every other day, to the surrounding vegetation’s delight, but to the misfortune of many others. Fog seemed to form more easily here than elsewhere.

Shortly after Alexander's sudden death, Louis' family moved into one of the apartments of the Rosewood Hall mansion. The manor had been divided into three nearly a century ago; only one of them was already occupied by some old man, according to what his father had told him. The house was quite big, although visibly old and in need of some sprucing up. It was obvious that no one was currently tending to the backyard. The shrubs and trees were dead, their branches dry and brittle. There wasn’t a single flower, nothing to contrast with the grimy grey that made up most of the place’s colour palette. Rosewood Hall seemed to be quite remote from the neighbourhood, it was located at the edge of a forest that stretched as far as the eye could see, and with a car it would most certainly take at least a ten-minute drive to encounter the first signs of civilization.

At any other point of his life, Louis would’ve whined and complained and argued - to no avail of course, his parents never yielded to his childish whims. He’d been taken away from his hometown, from everything he’s ever known, and he was expected to spend the summer in a place that seemed to have come straight out of a Grimm brothers’ fairy tale before heading off to university - where he’d finally be free and could live a life worthy of the name in the middle of London, away from his somewhat oppressive family.

So, yes, he would’ve whined and complained and argued. But ever since they had moved in, he hadn’t said a word. He was worryingly quiet and obedient, he’d blindingly comply and make himself so nearly invisible that his sisters had grown concerned.

He had three of them. Hester was the eldest. She was nineteen and spent her time reading, sewing, cooking, and taking care of their mother who’d been feeling poorly for the past few weeks. The twins were the youngest. Rose and Margaret (who often went by Maggie) were five years old and looked so much alike that it wasn’t always easy to tell them apart - they knew that, of course, and liked to tease people with it.

Apartment B, the one they had just moved into, had two floors. Although it only made up a third of the entire mansion, it was surprisingly spacious, and it had an impressive number of doors - thirteen in total. Louis didn’t bother to explore the place in the first few days after they moved. He would stay cooped up in his room, his heart weighing heavy in his chest, so much so he could hardly find the strength to get out of bed. Of course, he hadn’t told anybody. He would say he was tired, and they wouldn’t prod any further.

His parents hadn’t known who Alexander was. They’d lived their story in complete secrecy.

The only thing worse than grieving was having to do it in silence. What a terrible thing it was, to love something that death could touch.

That night he was alone in his room. He’d been the first to claim it as soon as they stepped into the house. It was a big, luminous room with a large window overlooking the garden, wooden floorboards that creaked underfoot, and cold, white walls - an emptiness he didn’t even feel like filling. He had very few things to keep tabs on; his belongings consisted of a few books, dull, sober clothes, piano scores and of course, his letters. He’d kept them preciously, hidden underneath the double bottom of his suitcase. He’d die if someone were to find and read them. It was all that was left from him. Tonight he had read them again, one by one, in the very order in which they’d been handed to him, warily slipped under his notebooks during study hours— that feverish period when he and Alexander didn’t dare to speak to each other and would instead settle for stolen glances and written words. Like these letters.

As he progressed in his reading, flipping through the letters, he noted how the words were becoming softer and sweeter, he could almost visualize him though the intricacies of his writing - the way he crossed out words with two straight lines, the little spots of ink where he’d left the tip of his pen for too long, and sure enough, the nickname he gave him at the beginning of the letters. _My little dove._ It was as silly as can be but he’d be damned if he said it didn’t warm his heart.

He loved him to death.

From among the pile of letters, a single photograph fell onto the bed. He picked it up, and suddenly it was as though he’d been struck in the chest. That was him. It was a photo of him, alone, in all his splendour, all his liveliness, all his beauty. Him, eyes bright and lovely, smiling at the camera., his light brown hair to which the black and white of the photograph did absolutely no justice, his messy curls and his thick, woollen scarf draped around his neck, his sharp jaw, his heart-shaped lips, his eyes, - his _eyes_. Overwhelmed with emotion, Louis stowed everything back into his suitcase as he started to feel nauseous. One more second and he would’ve likely thrown up his heart.

Someone shouted his name. He was being called for dinner.

He was the last one to sit at the dining table. As he took place, his fingers started to fix the collar of the white shirt he wore underneath a black woollen jumper. Hester set down a porcelain tureen right in the middle of the table, which extended almost three meters, with more chairs than there were people in this house. Their mother was in a dressing gown, pale as day, dark circles weighing heavy under her tired eyes. She didn’t eat much, so Hester took it upon herself to make sure she eats enough, urging her to fill her plate. The twins ate in silence, their cutlery clinking against the sides of the bowls and plates. And their father, sitting at the very end of the table, was no less taciturn than the rest of the family.

Under the soft light of the dining room, Louis ate with no appetite whatsoever. No one made the slightest remark to him about the wet streaks left by the tears on his cheeks.

At the end of the meal, his father called him from his study. He asked him to bring him some old newspapers he supposedly needed. They were stacked in a box, somewhere in the drawing room. Louis complied without making a fuss. The drawing room was where his family kept the expensive - and quite frankly uncomfortable and antiquated — furniture Louis’ grandmother had left them when she died. Nobody ever went in there, for some reason. There was a big piano that was most certainly out of tune, a small coffee table, a credenza, a heavy glass ashtray and an oil painting of a young woman in old clothing; she had a bulky white dress on, dark hair, diaphanous skin and a very much absent gaze. He didn’t know who she was, nor why his parents decided to keep the painting of what may be a complete stranger.

He found the box of old newspapers in a corner of the room. They were archives from the last few decades. He bent down to lift the heavy box, not without taking a quick look at the title of the first newspaper. It was from December 1910. “ _Police Combing Upper Redley For Missing Boy: 17-Year-Old Victor Myers Vanished From Grounds, Last Seen in Rosewood Hall.”_

How odd, he thought. A boy had disappeared thirteen years ago, and he seemed to have been living in that very manor. He ticked, but didn’t pay any more attention to it.

As he turned on his heels to walk away, he spotted this big, carved, brown wooden door at the far corner of the room. It seemed to have been hidden, as if it wasn’t exactly supposed to be seen at first glance. He himself had never noticed it before. He had practically mapped out the place in his head by then, yet he couldn’t figure out where that particular door led. He didn’t dwell on it and left the room for good.

*

When his mother advised him to go for a short walk and get some fresh air, even if it was only for a few minutes, Louis didn’t seem very motivated. He was sitting at the breakfast table with a book in his hand when she shot the suggestion. He looked up at her, meeting her dull and tired eyes.

“Please,” she pressed. “You need it. It’ll do you good.”

If he was still hesitant then, when he met Hester’s sterner, darker look from the kitchen where she was doing the dishes, now he pretty much had his mind set. He did not want to be around her. She walked up to the dining table and gathered his dirty dishes. He frowned - in his defence, he hadn’t quite finished eating.

“Just do what she says. If you won’t help out here, at least stay out of my way.”

He wouldn’t admit it but they were both right. Perhaps a change of scenery would help lift his spirits. Being confined to this house had obviously not done him good so far. So, he got ready and went out. The air was bitterly cold for an ordinary month of June. The mist hung like blindness around the house. It was also terribly grey, like all life had been sucked out of this place. _Could this place get anymore depressing?_ He thought, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked down the steps to the rocky ground. He took a few steps and then wandered off to the side where he could see the next occupied apartment - the C. He wasn’t too surprised to see the old man his father had told him about, sitting on the porch, rocking back and forth on a chair. It creaked a little, worn down by time and weight. The old man’s eyes followed Louis as he stepped forward.

“Good morning,” said Louis. “We’ve just moved in next door.”

The neighbour did not react. He just looked at him and kept on rocking back and forth.

“My name’s Louis.”

His attempt at introducing himself failed miserably. The man didn’t answer. Perhaps he was deaf, or mute, or he didn’t understand English. Either way, Louis didn’t want to waste his time, so he went on his way.

*

He should have known better. Or at least he should have foreseen it, what with the entire sky being covered in grey and the clouds being so close to the earth. He’d ventured too far into the woods and it had started pouring down. And it was not the kind of rain you could disregard. It was rain that meant business. And its business was turning the entire estate into one big puddle of mud and grime. By the time Louis found his way back to the house he was soaking wet. He rushed inside under Hester’s furious gaze, the soles of his shoes leaving wet traces behind him. She’d just finished cleaning the floors.

He locked himself into the bathroom, slipping into a lukewarm bath as the rain and the wind were beating down on the window. Buried in the water up to his neck, one arm dangling off the tub, he cried silently, wondering when this would pass, when the heaviness in his throat would finally give way, when he could breathe at last.

He’d turned the faucet off, of that he was sure. But it was leaking, small droplets falling into the water. It went plop…plop….plop…

That same evening, while the storm was still raging, he found himself in the drawing room, the only place without windows, which meant that he couldn’t hear the roar of the wind as much, and it made for a quiet place where he could read. In the meantime the room had been cleaned and dusted. It was dark, but a few candles did the trick. There was a fireplace, too. It was summer, granted, but it came in very handy right about now.

He was reading on the large sofa facing the fireplace. He only looked up when the feeling of being watched was starting to physically itch. His mother was in the parlour with his sisters, at the other end of the flat, and his father was most likely in his study. He knew he was alone in that room yet he couldn’t help but feel observed. He looked around and stopped at the portrait of the young woman. For some reason, it looked like she was watching him. If he looked closely, she did appear to be staring right at him. The corner of her mouth seemed to be curved upwards — which was simply absurd as she had no particular expression up until now. In the background was a dull, deserted, grey landscape, which looked an awful lot like what he saw outside. In her hands was a tiny bouquet of dead flowers.

He went back to his reading for a moment, but out of curiosity he looked up again at the painting. This time, his heart stopped. He could’ve sworn he’d just seen her blinking. He’d caught the end of the movement; when her eyelids were opening back up. The semblance of the smile he thought he’d seen on her lips had completely disappeared, of that he was certain.

A shiver ran down his spine as he closed his book. He left the room calmly and stepped into the parlour where his mother was embroidering in the corner of the sofa. Hester was sitting on an armchair at the other end of the room, and the twins were side by side on the floor, sharing the same picture book.

Louis went to sit next to his mother. She interrupted her embroidery, leaning in to kiss him on the temple.

“Mother. Who’s the lady in the painting?”

“What painting?”

“The one in the drawing room.”

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “Your grandmother left us a lot of things. I don’t plan on keeping it all.”

He certainly wasn’t going to confess what he —thought he— saw. He didn’t quite believe it himself.

“And where does that door lead? The one in the far corner of the room. Have you seen it?”

“I have, dear,” she said, resuming her needlecraft. “To my knowledge it doesn’t lead anywhere. When they turned the house into flats, I suppose they simply bricked it up. It must’ve led to what is now Apartment A, if I’m not wrong.”

“There’s no one there. It’s still up for sale, isn’t it?”

“It is. Why so many questions all of a sudden? You’ve been so quiet these past few days.”

“The drawing room makes me uncomfortable.”

“What, you’re scared?” Hester snarked. “at your big age?”

“Go on, now,” his mother defended. “He’s a big boy. He’s not afraid, he just said he felt uncomfortable, that’s all.”

“Thank you,” he said, mouthing the words ‘eat shit’ at his sister.

*

That night, he slept very badly. He tossed and turned in bed, haunted by images he would’ve rather forgotten. Flames, a fire, a burning building, people screaming in the streets. This was straight out of his imagination. He hadn’t actually witnessed the fire in person. The one Alexander had perished in. A friend of theirs had told him the terrible news the next morning.

He woke up with a start, and tears in his eyes. It was daylight. He could perceive a faint smell of burning wood, and so he quickly sat up, heart pounding against his ribcage. Before he knew it the smell was gone, almost as if it had never been there in the first place, which was odd because smells don’t just dissipate that fast. They tended to linger for a while. He figured he hadn’t been in his right mind for days now. He must’ve surely imagined that smell, like all the weird things he’d been experiencing here. Still, he took the trouble to get up and check every room for a burning smell. Nothing.

Pretty soon, and inevitably it seemed, he found himself in the drawing room. The place was pale and somewhat eerie, the white-mist light inviting itself from the dining room window at the opposite side. The eyes of the lady in the painting seemed to follow him as he moved around.

Hester called him over. He gave her a distracted, vague indication that he was coming, but as he was about to head out, he noticed that something was sticking out from under the door. To his recollection, there hadn’t been anything on the ground before. He walked up to the far corner of the room and saw what looked like a piece of paper. He bent down and picked it up, more curious than anything else. It had been folded in two. He stood up and unfolded it under the resounding gaze of the lady with the faded flowers - he wouldn’t notice it right away, but the bouquet had started to regain some colour.

His heart missed a beat or two. The handwriting. He would’ve recognized it among a thousand others. He read that day’s date in the top corner. It was addressed to him. He knew it, because in this very delicate handwriting that he’d grown to know and love, it said,

_My little dove,_

_Oh, how I've missed you..._

_Don’t be afraid, come find me behind that door. I’ll be waiting for you. Trust me, it’s a wonderful world out there. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again._

_Yours Forever, Alexander._

Louis crushed the piece of paper in his fist. Someone was playing tricks on him. And he knew very well who was capable of doing such a thing. Although he was fuming at that very moment, he kept quiet and stepped into the dining room, the crumpled letter in his pocket, body tense and teeth clenched. He remained silent, but when his eyes fell on his older sister who was eagerly eating her scrambled eggs, all he could think was _if looks could kill_..

She finally looked up at him. “Is everything all right?” she asked. “Why aren’t you eating?”

He just crossed his arms on the table. “Don’t play innocent. You know what you’ve done.”

Hester frowned in confusion. With a firm gesture, she cut a piece of sausage off her plate and brought it to her mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just own up to it, Jesus, how evil can you be.”

“Children,” their mother intervened. “What’s the matter?”

Hester just shrugged while Louis kept quiet, still so entirely consumed by rage and incomprehension. How dare she?

It was the only possible - and plausible - explanation, so he clung to it with all of his might, for it was better to take on his sister for a joke - however unamusing and in poor taste it might’ve been- than to consider the impossible and absurd.

When breakfast was over, he took her by storm. He waited until she’d retreated into her room upstairs. She was sitting in front of her dainty vanity when he burst in - without knocking of course, with the letter still crumpled in his fist. She jumped in surprise and her hand flew up to her heart. She had been busy undoing the few rollers in her blonde hair, the ones that were supposed to make it curly but weren’t that effective.

“How dare you,” he said.

“How dare _you_ come into my room without knocking?”

“You-”

“Get out,” she pressed. “Knock. And when I tell you ‘come in!’, _then_ you come in.”

“You think it’s funny, don’t you? You reckon this,” he practically shoved the piece of paper in her face. “is the peak of comedy.”

The half-amused, half-worried expression on his sister’s face was infuriating, “What is that?”

She reached out to grab it but he shoved it back into his pocket. “You would know. After all, you’re the one who wrote it, aren’t you?”

“You’re out of your mind. Why would I write you a-”

“You pretended to be him,” he snapped. “I’m not sure how you came across the letters, but this was in very bad taste and quite frankly just a cruel joke to-”

“Who are you even talking about?” she cut him harshly, and when she raised her voice at him, Louis stepped back, caught short. He didn’t understand why she made the joke drag on - she simply wouldn’t budge! He knew Hester like the back of his hand. Their relationship had always been quite tumultuous; she was used to having the upper hand, and bad tricks were her forte. The only thing was that she would give in quickly. She wouldn’t keep it up for long, no matter how bad the jokes were. When he saw how genuinely confused she looked, he started to doubt.

“Alexander, of course,” he mumbled in one last attempt at getting her to drop the act.

“Who’s that? Is he a friend of yours?… Why on earth would I pretend to be him? Hand me that note.”

“No.”

He reached his hand into his pocket to touch it with his fingertips as an awful hunch took over him. Upon seeing him so distraught, Hester’s features softened up. “Where’d you find it, then?”

“Under the door. The one in the drawing room.”

Before she could reply, he’d already hurried out of the room and bolted down the stairs, heading straight for the room in question. If it wasn’t Hester then it had to be someone in apartment A that was playing this dirty trick on him. He turned the doorknob, only to notice that it was locked. He pulled and turned and pushed with everything he had, to no avail. Upon hearing all the commotion, his mother stepped into the room, one of the twins clinging to her leg.

“I want to open this door,” he said, firmly.

“Darling, haven’t we discussed-”

“I want to open it,” he repeated, staring straight at the door.

“I don’t even think we’ve got the key.”

“It’s got to be in the drawer.”

Near the entrance was a short chest of drawers; the first contained all the keys to the house. There were about a dozen of them, he gathered them all into his hands and practically ran back to his mother. At any other time she would’ve scolded him and sent him into his room, but she had grown to pick her battles, and if opening that door for Louis meant that he would simmer down, she’d gladly do it.

She sorted through them carefully and selected the biggest, oldest-looking one. It was a little rusty, too, as though it hadn’t been used in a long time, unlike the others. “Here,” she said. “Try this one.”

He took the key from her and pushed it into the lock before turning it. Something clicked as he held his breath. He turned the doorknob and pulled the door open.

Nothing. Nothing but a solid, floor to ceiling brick wall. His mother stood quietly, a few steps behind; Maggie had taken refuge behind her legs, her little hands clinging to her dress. Her head was barely peeking from behind her.

“Like I said. They’ve bricked it up.”

Louis didn’t answer. There was no way anyone could’ve slipped even a piece of paper underneath that brick wall.

He shut the door as shivers ran down his spine.


	2. Chapter 2

A poisonous mixture of fear and concern kept him up that night. His mind raced as he went over various logical explanations as to what had just occurred — but in vain. He refuted them one by one, as easily as they came to him, and inevitably found himself back to square one.

His bedroom was dark, despite the moon shining faintly, a pale white beam of light in the ink-black sky. Louis was laying in his bed, holding the piece of paper right against his heart.

Why he was asked to open the door if there was only some stupid brick wall behind it, he had no idea. It made no sense. Perhaps it wasn’t even a real wall. It could have been a mere pile of bricks that would most certainly collapse as soon as he touched it. Whatever the truth turned out to be, he couldn’t accept that the door led nowhere, and so, he got up. His feet touched the floorboards which creaked a little under his steps. He took hold of a little candle holder he’d left on the bedside table, struck a match and used the light to guide himself through the hallway. The soft, shimmering light of the little flame cast a faint glow on him, highlighting the fine, delicate features of his face and reflecting itself into his wide open eyes. He padded along the corridor, past the closed doors of his sisters’ rooms, and quietly made his way down the staircase, crossing the hall towards the drawing room. Now that he was back, he started to question things once again. It was beyond comprehension - entirely absurd, too, but in his despair, and blinded by grief, he told himself that anything was better than a reality where he had to live without him.

It was awful dark in the room he’d been dreading to be in for the last few days. He reached his hand out and lifted the candle up so he could have a look at the painting of the lady with the flowers. Nothing unusual there. Then he turned to look at the door. His mother hadn’t bothered to lock it.

He looked down, only to spot another piece of paper sticking out from under the door. He picked it up and read it:

_Knew you'd come back, my little dove. Enjoy the journey._

He stowed it in the pocket of his pajamas, put his hand on the cold doorknob and held his breath. He turned the knob and opened the door at once. The bricks had gone, as though they had never been there in the first place. In their place, a long, dark hallway stretched before him. There was a cold, musty smell coming through the open doorway: it smelled like something very old and very slow. Louis walked through the corridor uneasily, his hand clenching the little handle of the candleholder. He didn’t see the end of it but he kept on walking regardless in slow, cautious steps. Once in a while, he would peek behind just to make sure the door stayed open. The floor was wooden, just like in the room he’d just left. The hallway wasn’t nearly narrow enough to make him uncomfortable. There was a soothing silence, too - then again he reckoned any noise would make him flinch and go back. A gentle breeze blew over him, brushing softly against the few strands of hair that fell on his forehead.

There was another door ahead. He opened it, and it led to a large, well-lit room. He stood there, stunned. It was the drawing room. The exact same place he’d just left. Only, cleaner, and… better-looking? The floor was shiny, the colours of the furniture and carpets were just a little brighter. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the credenza or the top of the fireplace. A fire was burning deep in the hearth, casting its light and heat around, crackling away. The portrait of the lady with the flowers was what struck him the most. The colours were vivid and shimmering, the landscape behind her was alive - just like a summer day. The lady herself was different. She had a big smile, her white dress was sparkling brightly, and beside her stood two little children, a boy, and a girl whose hand the lady was holding. She looked down at them, tenderly. In her other hand she held a bouquet of bright pink amaryllis.

When his eyes landed on the piano in the far corner, the same one their grandmother had left them, he started to question the situation. Was it actually the next door flat, even though he knew it to be empty? And if so, how could they have the exact same furniture as them? How could everything be so accurately similar to their flat?

The answer found its way to him fairly quickly.

“Louis?”

His heart missed a beat. He turned his head to where he’d heard the voice — towards the dining room. That was Hester’s voice, there was no doubt about it. She appeared in the corner of the opening that separated the drawing room from the rest of the house. She was dressed in her pajamas, too, and her face lit up as soon as she saw him.

It _was_ Hester - only there was something different about her. Her cheeks had a rosy tint to them, her blonde hair was silky and shiny and all curly and she seemed overall more alive, which was a disturbing observation to make. His sister, the one he knew at least, wasn’t as bright and perky and cheerful as… whoever this was. She ran up and stopped right before him with a wide smile on her face. He hadn’t moved. Quite frankly, he felt like his legs had just turned into stone.

“Oh, Louis, we’ve waited so long for you! We’re so glad you’re finally here.”

She leaned in and blew out the candle. The flame died out with a little _whoosh_ , leaving behind a long, thin trail of smoke. Hester grabbed the candleholder and gestured for him to follow her as he went over what had just happened… _We_? Who was _‘we’_?

“I do hope you’re hungry. Mother and I have made a feast fit for a king.”

He followed her quietly around the house. He figured it was in his own interest to behave and do as she says. He didn’t even want to consider the consequences if he refused. Together, they stepped into the dining room, where his _parents_ and _little sisters_ were waiting for him. There was a large crystal chandelier casting its light all around the room. The three of them stood together like a family photograph, with big, unsettling smiles on their lips.

“Who are you?” he managed to ask in a low, unsure voice.

“We’re your other family, silly,” said the woman who looked exactly like his mother.

“I… uh…” he took a few steps back. “I don’t have another family.”

“Of course you do,” said his ‘father’. “Everybody’s got another family. We’ve been waiting for you. You’re just in time for dinner dear.”

Before he had a chance to object, Hester pushed him towards the table and made him take a seat at the very end. She was right. It was no ordinary meal. Before him was nothing less than a banquet, a far cry from the filthy soup that Hester would make at home. As everybody settled in, Hester made sure he was served first. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas and asparagus… He didn’t touch any of it, instead he just looked at them, overcome with something that vaguely resembled fear but mostly fascination. His mother suddenly didn’t look so sickly. At home, she was worryingly pale and moved about with quite a bit of hardship. Here, she had a fresh, healthy complexion, rosy, plump cheeks, shiny hair pulled up into an elegant hairdo. She even had bloody _lilies_ in her hair. And she had a constant smile on her lips - she laughed at the jokes and witty remarks of her husband, a man who was very much at odds with Louis’ father. He was exuberant, and obviously liked to tease people.

“We give our thanks and ask to bless, our mother’s golden chicken breast.”

His wife rolled her eyes at him, shushing him with a dismissive hand gesture, though she couldn’t help but smile at the double meaning of his clever comment, subtle enough to escape the little ones’ understanding. Louis didn’t laugh. Under normal circumstances he might have, though.

Hester dug in wholeheartedly into her food while the twins messed around with their meal, splashing each other with mashed potatoes and erupting in fits of laughter.

“Now, now, girls, settle down,” said their mother. “You shouldn’t play with your food. Some people are starving, and would do anything for a tiny bite of your plate. Let us have some order, shall we?”

The girls complied without fuss. And Louis just kept staring at all of them - these people who looked so terribly familiar but at the same time so unsettlingly different. It was like meeting complete strangers who claimed to know you.

“It’ll get cold, darling,” said the woman. “You’ve not touched your plate. Is there something else you’d like?”

“I’m not hungry,” he said, and his voice came as barely louder than a muffled whisper.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, her eyes insistent, with a weird twinkle about them. Very soon he had the entire family’s attention. “We’ve gone to a lot of trouble for this meal. We’ve been waiting for you for so long. We hoped you’d at least give it a taste.”

“We’ve not poisoned it or anything,” said Hester with a sly smile. “Right hand on the Bible and all. You can trust _us_.”

As they seemed to insist, he decided to take a bite of the chicken. It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was rather delicious. Perhaps the best chicken he’s ever had. Though he still had to force the food down - he was _not_ hungry. Who would be, in a time and place like this?

“Verdict?” asked Hester, with her mouth still full of mash.

He gave a mildly enthusiastic nod. “It’s very good.”

“See!” exclaimed the young woman. “Would you like some dessert? Mother and I have baked a rhubarb cake. We’ve set it to cool while we were waiting for you.”

“You… You knew I’d come.”

The parents looked at each other.

“Of course we knew,” said what claimed to be his other mother. “Oh, dear. What took you so long, might I ask? It just wasn’t the same without you here.”

When she smiled, her white teeth shone under the light of the chandelier. There was nothing particularly frightening about her - on the contrary, she seemed kind and rather well-intentioned, but her persona looked forced and perhaps too good to be true. He faked a smile in response to hers.

Hester brought the cake and placed it right in front of him. It was covered in a pink, shiny glaze, lighted candles stuck in it. It wasn’t his birthday, as far as he was concerned. Written in raspberry jelly, in thin, red letters:

**WELCOME HOME**

He immediately noticed a double loop inside the O in the word home. He found this was a very curious way of tracing this letter, though he didn’t bother questioning it any further. Had he done that, maybe he could’ve anticipated what happened next.

He was served a slice of cake, which he devoured to the very last crumb. He couldn’t lie; it was scrumptious. Besides, if he was eating, he didn’t attract their attention.

After dinner, Hester insisted on having them gather round in the drawing room, where she said she would perform a new piano piece she had just learned. Louis took place on the big sofa with his other parents. He sat up straight, stiff as a stick, overly aware of their proximity. The twins sat on the floor by their feet. Seeing them all up close like this, with their little blonde locks all shiny under the light, feeling the warmth emanating from the bodies sitting at either side of his — he could no longer doubt. Whatever this was, it was real. And that in itself was downright terrifying.

Hester sat down at her bench in front of the piano with her back turned to them. The instrument was very well-tuned, as he will find. She turned her head to look at them, “I’ve been working on this day and night. I do hope you enjoy it.”

“Especially at night,” her father remarked in a light tone. “We could hear you loud and clear, sweetheart.”

She positioned her hands on the keys and started playing a very catchy, playful piece which turned out to be a rag-time classic that Louis might or might not have heard before. Her fingers were dancing on the keys, fluttering and twirling, nearly indistinguishable, her foot stepping on the pedal in rhythm. The melody wasn’t unlike the songs one could hear at the movies while watching a silent film, where pianists were often invited to improvise the soundtrack as they went. It was pleasant to hear, Louis couldn’t lie, and it worked wonders with him; he’d calmed down a bit, as it turned out.

When she finished, she spun around on her bench and gave a little bow, a proud smile sketching itself on her pink lips. The family applauded her warmly, Louis followed them a few seconds late.

“Oh,” she said. “What shall I play when our guest arrives?”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” said her mother.

“I believe we might have some old partitions somewhere in the house. What do you think, Louis? Would you say he’s the kind to enjoy the classics? Or has he no interest in music at all…”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Who’s the guest?”

He felt the woman’s hand on his shoulder. “You know him very well. Perhaps a clue will help you.”

“Um…”

“His name starts with an A,” said Hester, with a hint of excitement in her voice.

And it was all it took for his mind to clear completely. He stood up at once, under the somewhat surprised gaze of his other family. He walked backwards towards the door that had been left ajar, the one he’d walked through to end up here.

“I’m feeling tired,” he said, his voice a little shaky. “Maybe some other time, I, uh… I’m going home. Thank you for the food.”

As he said this, he already had one hand on the doorknob, ready to flee at any time. The parents got up and walked up to him, and his other mother took the lead, placing her hand against her own heart. “You’re leaving already?” she said, clearly saddened. “What will we tell him? He’s come such a long way just to see you. He can’t be that far, now, surely you could stay until he shows up?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he pressed weakly. “I’ll be back. Maybe. Thank you again. I’ve really got to go.”

“Oh well, fine. As you wish, darling. Don’t you forget about us. We’ll be waiting for you. Get some rest!”

He made his way back into the dark corridor.

He looked back a first time; they all stood there, near the doorframe, waving goodbye.

“Goodnight!” said Hester, with a bright smile - she was waving the most eagerly.

He kept on walking.

And looked back a second time. They’d stopped waving and smiling. The other mother stood before them, her hands crossed against her chest as she mouthed the words, _see you soon_.

Soon he found his way back to his own world. What a strange thing to say; _his_ world. He locked the door and just stood there for a moment, taking it all in. The silence he found himself in was deafening, and so was the darkness. He’d left his candle over there. He didn’t turn on the lights, as he had no desire to see the painting.

That night he dreamed of a big banquet, off-putting smiles, and the famous surprise guest.

The next morning, after waking up, it took him a while to recall last night’s events. He scoffed; what an absurd dream. Another family…

At the breakfast table, Hester asked, as poised and sober as possible, “Is there anything for me in the mail?”

Her father shot her a skeptical glance over the table, between two spoonfuls of soup. “Were you expecting something?”

She gave no answer, because doing so would most certainly mean betraying herself. Before they’d left town, she had a rather steamy relationship with a boy. He was an apprentice at his father’s workshop - he likely hadn’t been to school a day in his life, but despite the stark difference in social ranks, she knew she could drop everything in a heartbeat for him, for he made her feel more alive and loved and special than anyone in her lifetime ever had, though she was no stranger to the set of unspoken rules her family seemed to be living by. She already suspected what might happen should her parents ever find out about him. She knew just what they would say. It’s not someone for you. He has no future. He’s penniless. He’s _scum_. But of course, regardless of whether they approved or not, she was seeing him in secret. Before moving she’d given him their new address in hopes that he would at least try to write to her. It had been three weeks since they moved into Rosewood Hall, and he hadn’t shown a sign of life since the last time they had seen each other.

All of this of course, she couldn’t confess to anyone, let alone her father. So, she feigned indifference, brushing a dull, blonde strand of hair behind her ear and digging into her unfinished plate. She made sure her mother finished hers, and even offered to cut her food into small bites to make it easier.

From the other end of the table, Louis watched them silently. They were a far cry from the family he’d dreamed of the previous night (because of course, it was a dream). They all seemed so bland and dreary and colourless, it was only made more obvious now. And last night, he had been treated like nothing less than royalty. Here and now, they barely acknowledged his existence.

He offered to fetch the mail himself. It was a minute’s walk from the house to reach the mailbox, by the main road. He went up to his room to change first. And while he undressed, something fell out of his pajama pocket.

It was the note from yesterday.

His heart dropped. As if that could somehow make it bearable, he threw it into a drawer and hurried out of the house. He’d only taken a few steps on the porch when he heard a voice, “You know…” Louis looked to his right. The next-door neighbour was sitting on the corner of the porch, rocking on his old, wooden chair, his hand folded over his knees. “Mr. Myers, the landlord, never leases his apartments to families with children. It was strange of him to let you move in. I suppose he must be out of his mind. He’s not so young anymore, he might not remember.”

Louis just frowned in confusion. “Right,” he deadpanned. “Have a good day.”

He went to get the mail, and when he came, the man was gone. He dropped the letters on the kitchen table and went upstairs to knock on the door of his father’s office. He let himself in after hearing him mumble what sounded like a permission, and just stood there by the door. His father was sitting in front of his desk, fingers typing away on the typewriter. Faint cigarette smoke clouded the room, twirling underneath the light from his desk lamp. He had his back to Louis, and didn’t even bother turning around.

“I talked to our neighbour,” he said. “Well, _he_ talked to _me_.”

“Mr. Walker?” he asked, still typing away. “Don’t mind him. Hasn’t got much of his sanity left to him, he’s a lunatic.”

“Is he?”

“I should know. We spoke on the first day. He’s completely senile.”

“He said the owner was insane for letting us move into the flat.”

“Mr. Myers?”

“Yes, and…” He stopped dead. _Myers._ He’d seen that name before. “Where are the archives?”

His father pointed to a corner of the room with a dismissive gesture. The cardboard box was still there, untouched. And the first newspaper was in the same place. Louis re-read the headline, _Police Combing Upper Redley for Missing Boy: 17-Year-Old Victor Myers..._

“Has that boy ever been found?”

“Come again?” he mumbled distractedly, still not deigning to look at him.

“Victor Myers,” Louis insisted. “He used to live here. He’s gone missing, some… thirteen years ago. Has he been found, you reckon?”

“I have no idea.”

“May I keep the newspaper?”

“If you promise to let me work in peace, then yes.”

“How about the whole box?”

The man sighed loudly, and Louis took it as a yes. He lifted up the box and left the study to lock himself into his room. He set the box down on his desk and began combing through the archives, looking for anything that might’ve referred to Victor’s case. He wasn’t sure why it mattered so, he was a complete stranger as far as he was concerned. On the other hand, it was hard _not_ to meddle. Victor was the same age as him when he disappeared. He even looked a bit like him, in his picture. And he’d disappeared nearby. Besides, it wasn’t that long ago.

He gave up after an hour of fruitless research. The boy was never mentioned again.

*

That night he tossed and turned in his bed, and couldn’t fall asleep for the life of him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the little note - the only tangible evidence that last night’s events had really taken place. Or had they? Now that he was up, he figured it was the right time to settle this, once and for all. That night, he would find out whether there really was some sort of alternate reality at the other side of that door.

After making sure that everybody was sound asleep, and that this wasn’t just some elaborate joke they were all playing on him, he quietly made his way down to the drawing room. This time, he was ready.

Before he inserted the key, he heard someone giggling behind him. A woman’s voice, soft, and light. He started, his head turned back so quickly he almost gave himself a whiplash. He looked around the dark room, eyes wide open in fear. He waved a candle around to try and light up every corner. There was no one there. He gulped, and raised the candle up to the portrait. He met the lady’s eyes. She was looking directly at him and it sent shivers down his spine, for as sure as anything, her eyes had always been staring into the emptiness, as if she were looking at something in the distance, somewhere in her own world. Now, there was not a doubt in his mind that she was staring at him with her big, green eyes, illuminated by the candlelight. She remained perfectly still, though.

He didn’t particularly wish to prolong this interaction any longer, and so he turned the key, opened the door and rushed inside the corridor. The same smell lingered in the air as he recalled last night’s events. His heart was beating wildly against his ribcage; he was just on the verge of being sick. Before he reached the end, he could hear muffled music coming from beyond the other door. He pushed the door open and took a few hesitant steps into the drawing room. For some reason, he instantly felt better. A fire was burning, the lighting was soft and dim and it was as cozy and toasty as it came. Hester was sitting in the middle of the sofa, Maggie on her right, Rose on her left. She was holding an old Beatrix Potter book on her lap and reading the story to the girls who were clinging to her, nuzzling into her sides. She did all sorts of funny voices to impersonate each character. The piano, he noticed, was playing by itself. He recognized the song; it was the one Hester had played the other night, only the tempo was softer.

His arrival had interrupted the moment, but he was greeted with overwhelming warmth, just like last night. The girls smiled and practically leapt off the sofa to hug and kiss him, and he wished he had the resolve and strength of mind to maintain his distrust, which he was certain was the only thing that kept him safe at all times, but how could he? They were so lovely and sweet, and besides, he figured literal _children_ couldn’t possibly harm him.

“You’re back!” said Hester, hugging him tighter. “I knew you’d return!”

“Want to read the story with us?” asked Maggie, pulling him by the sleeve of his jumper. “We’re reading The Tale of Mr. Tod!"

He didn’t see why not, and so the four of them settled down to finish reading the book, under the tender gaze of his other parents who had been watching them from the dining room. Had he paid attention to them he would’ve noted just how unsettling they looked, just standing them with big, frozen smiles.

The doorbell rang.

“Darling?” He looked back at the other mother as she approached. “Someone for you at the door. I think it’s safe to say he’s been _dying_ to see you.”

She hadn’t actually revealed the famous guest’s identity but he had a hunch; if the letters were anything to go by… His throat was tight, though, it felt like someone had their hand clasped around his neck. He got to his feet nevertheless, and his other mother walked up to him. She readjusted his collar, running her hands over his jumper to smoothen it out - for a brief moment he noticed just how similar she and his real mother were, even in their gestures. It was quite a bittersweet moment. All of this was before she fell ill.

“Go on,” she whispered with an encouraging nod and a reassuring smile. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he opened the front door.

 _He_ was there. Standing on the porch, under the bright light of the lamp with his hands in his pockets, a half, lazy smile on his lips. He was wearing the same clothes he wore the last day they saw each other, hazel eyes quickly watering up as he sized Louis down, taking him in.

He didn’t waste a second. Louis jumped at his neck, hugging him so very tightly he didn’t even care if he suffocated. His fingers clung onto the soft cotton of his navy blue jumper as he felt the tears prickling at his eyes. He cried softly, burying his face in the space between his neck and his shoulder. Alex had always been taller than him, and he’d always given him grief for it. Now he didn’t care if his tears stained his shirt. His shoulders shook with sobs, Alex’s hand stroking his back to soothe him. He could’ve just burst with happiness. He could smell his perfume and feel his warmth and it was all just so overwhelming he knew he would die if he woke up and this was just a dream.

But no, this was real. This was real; he kept repeating it in his mind over and over again like a maddening mantra.

They pulled apart long enough so Louis could stare into those kind, lovely eyes he’d fallen so deeply in love with. Alex had cried a little, too. Louis framed his face with his hands, and without wasting another second he sealed their lips in a deep, tender kiss as Alex pulled him closer by his waist. They kissed on the porch, right underneath the lamp, surrounded by an annoying swarm of little moths.

“You’re real,” Louis whispered in between greedy kisses. “You’re alive. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a little hoarse but just as he remembered it to be.

“Don’t leave me again.”

“I won’t. I’ll never leave you.”

Louis took a step back and tried to take it all in. His hands were still shaking as he stared him up and down. “God. What is… I just can’t… You were dead… Alex, and I…”

“I know,” he cut him, with a sad little smile. “But I’m here with you now.” He reached out his hand to hold his face, brushing his thumb over his cheek to wipe the tears.

“What are you? Some kind of… ghost? God, this sounds so…”

Alex chuckled at the word, and when he laughed, faint crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. Louis started laughing through his tears. “Of course not. There’s no such thing as ghosts. I’m…”

“You’re… the other Alexander. Aren’t you?”

“The _better_ Alexander.”

Overcome with emotion, Louis jumped into his arms again, and this time he refused to let go.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Alex confessed. “Heard you’d scampered off yesterday… I was afraid you didn’t actually want to see me,” he whispered, one hand stroking Louis’ hair as he held him closer.

“I got scared,” he muttered.

“Oh, I should imagine.”

“What kind of world are we in? Is this… are we still…”

“Don’t mull it over, you’ll give yourself a monster headache. Everything’s better here. It’s all that matters.”

“So you really wrote all those notes to me, didn’t you?”

“What are you tal-”

Before he could finish his sentence, the front door opened behind them, revealing the other mother.

“Well, good evening,” she exclaimed. “The famous Alexander. We meet properly at last. Come on in!”

She went around, introducing the boy to the rest of the family, under Louis’ bewildered gaze. Were they even aware of the nature of their relationship? It would appear so. His other family was so loving and accepting and open, it would seem he’d just landed in a completely different time-period, _universe_ even.

They had dinner, all together. The meal was punctuated by his other father’s jokes and his other mother’s questions about Alexander’s life - they were neither intrusive nor were they touchy, she was simply curious in a good way, there was no doubt she had Louis’ happiness very much at heart. Hester would chat with their guest, too, she made him laugh all the time and kept on filling his plate up even though he said he wasn’t that hungry.

Louis didn’t eat much that night either, for two reasons. One, it was very late; these people always seemed to be up and running at ungodly hours. He wondered if they ever slept. Two, something else was taking up all the space in his chest, not leaving much room for food. He was filled to the brim with so much emotion and tenderness for his lover; he found himself yearning for his touch and attention, and grew restless if he so much as detached his eyes from Alex for too long. He watched him live and eat and burst out laughing, and he could feel the warmth of his hand on his, on the surface of the table.

“You’re happy, aren’t you, darling?” asked his other mother, who’d noticed just how smitten their new guest had gotten him. Louis nodded enthusiastically, and after a while he came to notice that there was almost nothing left of that paralyzing fear he’d once felt in the face of all this novelty and absurdity. “Good,” she said. “We’re glad you’re enjoying yourself. It’s all that matters.”

*

That very night, he and Alex found themselves alone in Louis’ room. Or rather, his other room. The one he hadn’t had a chance to explore yet. It looked like his, except the bed was bigger, it had silk sheets, shiny floorboards, large oriental carpets in shades of red and orange, and tiny touches of gold all around the room. They’d kept the light off and were making out in the dark, right in the middle of the bed. The soft mattress sunk a little under their weight.

Feeling particularly bold, Louis went to straddle him, one knee on either side of his narrow waist. His lips lingered for a while in the crook of his neck as he felt Alex’ fingers threading softly through his hair. They pulled apart long enough for Louis to pull Alex’s shirt off. By now, their eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. At the same time, the clouds gave way to the moonlight, and he could see just a little more clearly now.

His chest was pale, skin smooth, just as he remembered, down to the little mole on his right side. But there was something else that caught his attention. This awful, vertical scar, almost four inches long, right between his pecs. It did not look fresh, but the stitches were still visible, ten little horizontal strikes that kept the wound closed.

“What happened to you?” Louis whispered, worry lacing his words. His fingers hovered over the scar, hesitant. Alex laced his fingers with his, gently pushing his hand away.

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt.” But Louis couldn’t just drop it. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. It looked deep. Alex brought a hand to his cheek, softly stroking the skin, in a silent way of getting him to look up. “We can just sleep. We’ve plenty of time to catch up. I’m here. Forever and always.”

His last words should’ve been reassuring. Right now, they were anything but.

Louis gave in, and agreed to just spend the night by his side. He lied down right next to him, his head pressed against his chest as Alex threw an arm around his back, securing him right there. He felt safe with him. As if nothing could ever happen as long as he was by his side.

In his bliss, it didn’t immediately strike him. It took him a while to realize he couldn’t hear his heartbeat, even though his ear was pressed right against it. He couldn’t perceive his pulse. And yet he was alive and well, breathing, sometimes even twitching in his sleep.

“I can’t hear your heart.”

Of course, it had fallen on deaf ears. Alexander was sound asleep by then.

When Louis woke up, not only was he alone in bed, but he was back in his normal room. As though nothing had happened the previous night.


	3. Chapter 3

The fog had cleared out that morning. The air was chill, still and damp, like he imagined a castle dungeon would feel. There was not a patch of blue sky.

After a hasty breakfast, during which he couldn’t hide his displeasure at being back in this world so suddenly (was this a dream or was it not?), Louis got dressed and decided to go out. His mother was out on the porch, sitting on an old bench where the white paint was peeling off, one of the twins huddled against her. She was even paler than usual.

“I’m going into town,” he announced.

“Don’t get lost,” she warned in a soft voice. “And be back before dinner.”

There wasn’t much to see in Upper Redley. The whole town seemed very still, and very old. It was painfully unremarkable, all grey and dull, just like its inhabitants. They were dressed in bleak colours - long, grey and black coats that blended into the scenery with an astonishing ease. Sometimes, the odd car would drive along its paved streets. The city centre was a cluster of narrow, intersecting streets, shops with faded signs, and imposing, concrete buildings that stood straight. With his hands shoved in his pockets, Louis made his way down the main avenue, skirting the walls and avoiding passersby. There was this smell floating in the air - that of wet earth and concrete after rainfall. Plastered on a post was an old propaganda poster for the Great War. It had begun to crumble and weather away after a few years, its once bright colours washing out to a rudimentary mix of brown and green. Louis thought it was odd that the posters were still up. The war had been ancient history for five years already.

The first one depicted an English soldier blowing in a trombone. “FALL IN!” it said, “Answer now in your country’s hour of need.”

Louis didn’t like to be reminded of the war. Yet, to all appearances, its spirit was still alive and well in the small town.

Another poster on a window was showing a middle-aged man sitting on a chair with his two children in his lap. “Daddy,” the writing said, “What did _you_ do in the Great War?”. It was very obviously a message intended to guilt-trip men who refused to serve their country for whatever reason.

At the corner of a street, he saw what appeared to be the entrance to an old theatre. The large white screens above the closed doors displayed the name of a theatre production company in big, black letters: _Winter Garden Theatre._ It took no more than a single glance to understand that the place had closed its doors a long time ago. The windows were dirty, smudged and stained, there were no posters of any kind, nor were there any play titles on the white screen.

After a bit of wandering around, Louis spotted a quaint bookstore around the corner. He loved reading. Everyone knew it — especially Alexander. At the beginning of their relationship, back when he was still all bashful and coy, they would meet in the narrow aisles between the shelves of the high school library. Alex knew he could always find him there. He had even given him what had become his favourite book for his birthday last year.

The door opened with a chime. It was empty, just the way he liked it. The place was practically soundproof, what with all the books lining the walls. It was a bit tricky to navigate around all the tables and shelves. Near the entrance, on a wooden chest, was a record player, topped with a big brass horn. The stylus ran along the crevices of a vinyl disk. There was a comforting crackle to the sound as the song filled the narrow space of the bookstore.

_On the farm, every Friday. On the farm, it's rabbit pie day._

Louis raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. He stopped in front of a display case, where a book was featured. On the cover was an old wooden door, just slightly ajar, revealing pitch darkness inside, and several pairs of red eyes peeking through. The writings above said, “ _Would you recognize evil if it was looking you right in the eye_?”

_So, every Friday that ever comes along, I get up early and sing this little song._

He walked away, letting his fingers glide along a row of books, heading towards the back of the store. Another display drew him in. It was a large, hardcover book with a colourful cover page. There was this drawing of a young woman in the center, with her hands in front of her face, her fingers spread apart, revealing a pair of electric green eyes. She had long, curly brown hair. The title: Look Beyond the Illusions.

_Run rabbit - run rabbit - Run! Run! Run!_

“Looking for something?” asked a voice from behind a hidden counter.

Louis turned to his left and faced the young man holding the cash register. “No. Just looking around.”

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Goes the farmer's gun._

He almost added that he found he had very questionable taste in music, but he refrained. He ended up buying a mystery novel.

_Run rabbit – run rabbit – Run! Run! Run! Don't give the farmer his fun! Fun! Fun! He'll get by... Without his rabbit pie... So run rabbit – run rabbit – Run! Run! Run!_

On his way out, he ran into their neighbour, the old Mr. Walker. He was standing there near the entrance of the bookshop, staring at the displays in the window. In his hands was a large paper bag. Another one by his feet. It looked like it could be groceries. Louis approached him. “Hello,” he said, cautiously.

The man turned to him. “Morning… Do I know you?”

He really was senile then. Louis cleared his throat and introduced himself once again. “Yes. My name’s Louis. Your neighbour, at Rosewood Hall. I live in the B.”

It took him a while, and by the look of it quite a liberal amount of concentration, but he remembered eventually. He nodded. “Right. Big family next door, aren’t ya…”

“Not that big. But yes. Were you heading home?” he asked. “I could help you carry your groceries.”

Mr. Walker agreed without saying a word. Louis picked up the second paper bag and the two of them hit the road towards the manor. The walk home was quiet at first. But then the man spoke up.

“Sometimes I forget.”

“Yes. That’s all right.”

“Sometimes I get lost.”

He felt bad. And so he suggested, “I could do your shopping once in a while. So you don’t have to walk too far and get lost.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

They reached the house after several minutes of walking. The man let him in and Louis helped him put away his groceries. He tried to convince himself he wasn’t doing all this out of interest - but deep down he knew his true intentions. The man knew a lot about the house and its surroundings. He’d been around for a while. Granted, he might’ve forgotten some of it, but with a bit of work he figured he could give him the answers he was looking for.

Apartment C wasn’t much different from theirs, though it was a bit dated and old-fashioned. The furniture probably dated back to the last century, and the whole place was rather dark. Mr. Walker served him tea, which they drank together in the living room. Louis had taken a seat on a narrow armchair, holding his porcelain cup in his hands. He felt out of place. It was quiet for a moment — the ticking of an old grandfather clock was the only thing breaking the silence.

“Has your father fought in the war?”

“Yes.”

“I can see it in his eyes.”

He didn’t know exactly what he meant, so he said nothing and sipped on his tea. He asked him in turn, “What about you?”. And it was a silly question when you think about it.

“I haven’t,” he answered. “Was too old. My son has.” He reached out his hand towards a little table that stood between the armchair and the couch, where a few picture frames were residing. He pointed towards one of them. There was a man in a uniform, who appeared to be about thirty years old. He looked quite serious. “I keep his picture here so I don’t forget about him.” Louis presumed he must’ve died in combat. It wasn’t so uncommon. “His name was Albert. He died in Arras, France… May 15th, 1917.”

It was a date that must have marked him so deeply he never could forget it.

“I’m sorry,” said Louis.

Beside the frame was another photograph that caught his attention. A young girl who seemed to be about his age. Eighteen at most. The photo was well aged, already taking a slight sepia tint. She had light, chestnut or blonde hair, all wavy, two twists tied to the back of her head with a large, white bow. She wasn’t looking directly at the lens. She had big, clear eyes, and a rather prominent mole above her lip.

“Jane,” said Mr. Walker. “My twin sister. It’s the only picture I have of her.”

“What happened to her?”

He took his time to ponder, as if he hadn’t thought about it in ages. Louis remained patient.

“She’s gone,” he said at long last. “Disappeared when we were young… Don’t know what’s become of her. Back then, we used to live in your flat, she was… I believe she was seventeen.”

It gave him the chills, once again. Those disappearances were highly disturbing. First Victor, and then this young girl.

“You’ve told me the landlord no longer leases his flats to families with children.”

“Have I said that?”

“Yes. Why?”

Mr. Walker just shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“Does… Does Mr. Myers, the landlord… have anything to do with Victor Myers… The boy who’s gone missing some years ago.”

“Victor,” he repeated. “Oh, yes. Victor was… He was his son. Victor was a good boy. Paid me a visit every Saturday. He’d… He’d sit right there and tell me about his life and keep me company.”

“Has he been found, then?”

“I don’t know about that. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

There was another moment of silence.

“ _I_ had a son,” he said. “His name was Albert. He died in Arras, France. May 15th, 1917.”

He was repeating himself, but Louis did not have the heart to point it out, and so he offered his condolences once again. He came to the conclusion that he would not get anything else out of this man for today. He said goodbye, and right when he was about to leave, Mr. Walker called out to him. “Hang on.”

Louis turned to him. It was as if a flash of awareness had just struck him briefly.

“Don’t.. Don’t open that door.”

“The front door?… I- how else would I leave y-“

“No, not the front door,” he cut him. “The door. The one in the drawing room. It must stay closed.”

He froze in place. Would he happen to know anything about the other world? And if so, why in the world would he want the door to stay closed? Life was so much better on the other side.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s… All I know is that it has to stay closed. As long as it’s closed, he can’t do anything.”

“He? Who’s he?”

For a moment it looked like the man was about to answer, but then he frowned, and he shook his head, defeated.. “I’m sorry… I’m out of my mind. I must’ve rambled again. Don’t mind me.”

“… Sure. Have a good day, Mr. Walker.”

*

Despite the somewhat confusing warning, Louis had only one desire, and you could hardly blame him for it. He wanted to go back to the other world — he’d settled for that name. Putting words on what he couldn’t clearly grasp was helping him cope.

It was the middle of the afternoon. His father was in town, his mother was having her daily nap in her bedroom, the twins were playing quietly in theirs, and Hester was busy cooking in the kitchen. No one paid him any attention, and so he figured they wouldn’t notice if he disappeared for a few hours.

So, he inserted the key into the lock, and opened the door in the drawing room. Sure enough, as ultimate proof that this wasn’t in fact just a dream of his, the hallway stretched before him, leading to the other door. His heart was pounding in his chest. He’d never been there during the day. Was there a difference? Or did they only happen to live at night? 

He took one last glance around, and then rushed out into the corridor.

The other drawing room was empty. It was daylight, though. A woman was humming happily in the kitchen, and it smelled delicious. It was his other mother. He walked quietly to the kitchen, and he wondered why he was being so hesitant all of a sudden. He stopped by the door. She was standing in front of the stove, an apron tied around her waist, a wooden spatula in her hand. There was no use in announcing his presence — she knew he was there, though he hadn’t made the slightest noise. She stopped humming, turned around and smiled at him. “There you are. We’ll have dinner in an hour or two. Will you taste the soup for me? I’m afraid I’ve been too heavy-handed on the salt… Well, come here.”

He complied, still a bit unsure.

“Don’t be scared,” she cooed in a warm, soothing voice. “Come here.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Good.”

She gently brought the spoon to his lips and let him taste it, her smile never leaving her lips.

“It’s very good.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Far better than the one Hester makes at home. I mean, the real Hester.”

“Hm,” she put the spoon in the sink. “We’re real, too.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t, it’s just…”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” she reassured him with a chuckle. “You’ll come around… There’s someone waiting for you in the parlour. Why don’t you go say hello?”

In the parlour, of course, was none other than Alexander, patiently waiting for him with a book in his hand. When Louis stepped into the room, he set the book down and stood up at once, a heartwarming smile on his lips. Louis ran into his arms, nearly making the both of them lose their balance. They giggled in between kisses, and then Alex pulled apart just to hold his face between his hands. “Good to see you, too,” he whispered. “Haven’t seen the garden yet, have you?”

Louis just shook his head no.

“Well then, you’re in for a show. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

And with that, he took Louis’ hand and led him to the front door. They stopped on the porch.

It was summer. A summer worthy of the name, to say the least. A blazing sun, the sky an almost unreal shade of blue - the air was warm, and it was not the kind of heat that stifles, but rather, the kind that caresses your skin. Birds were chirping, along with the incessant and distant song of cicadas, lost somewhere in the grass. Louis remained speechless for a while. Alex led him down the few stairs that separated the porch from the ground, where a small path of crushed white shells was drawn. He pulled him towards the back of the house.

He could hear music. An accordion, most certainly. It was lively and cheerful — just like accordions were, and it caught his attention. There, on the porch, near the door of Apartment C was the other Mr. Walker. The old man was sitting on a chair, and he looked much better than he did in the real world. He played the instrument like a pro, fingers flying over the little buttons and the keyboard. As they walked past him, the old man winked at him.

They turned the corner and found themselves in the backyard. Or, should he say, the garden, for it stretched farther than the eye could see. He let his gaze wander all over the place; first on the rich foliage of the trees in the distance, so thick, so green and sun-drenched one would think it was the middle of August. Some even bore fruits that he knew did not grow in England. The grass was just as green and luscious. But the obvious stars of the show were the flowers, he noticed. There were all kinds and so many of them, it was a field of colours and scents that embalmed even from afar.

A hidden passageway crossed the field, as if to allow for a better view of the flowers up close. It was some sort of tunnel whose wooden structure was embellished with branches of pink and white roses.

“This is gorgeous,” Louis whispered, in absolute awe at the beauty of this place.

“We knew you’d like it.”

“We?”

Alex ignored his question and dragged him further into the garden. A trickling sound made its way to their ears; there was a marble water fountain. Little birds stood on its edges, quenching their thirst. Not far from there was a swing set, where the twins were currently enjoying their day. Maggie was sitting on the swing, her sister eagerly pushing her. Louis could hear their laughter, and though they weren’t exactly his real sisters, it was still a very heartwarming thing to witness.

The boys went on their way, exploring the rest of the premises, past a few neat rows of hedges. Louis started when he heard some rustling coming from somewhere between the shrubs.

There was someone kneeling on the ground, by the rose bushes, pruning shears in hand, busy trimming the leaves. It was a young man who didn’t look much older than them, as a matter of fact. His hands and knees were muddy, he even had a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He had brown, curly hair, and when their eyes met, Louis’ heart missed a beat or two. Those green eyes. He felt like he’d seen them somewhere. And now it was as though their eyes were locked. Try as he might, he couldn’t look away, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

He was brought back to earth when he felt Alex pulling him along by the hand. He resisted. He cleared his throat and addressed the boy, “Did you do all this?”

The boy looked down, eyes downcast in something akin to embarrassment, as though he were ashamed of being seen in such a state. He wiped his hands against his thighs to get rid of the dirt. “Yes,” he simply said in a rich, deep voice.

“It’s beautiful, truly. This place is a dream.”

“Thank you,” he replied, risking a glance towards him. “I do love flowers. I thought the garden was a little plain.”

“Well, you’ve done an impressive job. Do you live here?”

“I live in apartment A.”

Louis ticked. Apartment A was empty, in his world. No one lived there, to his knowledge. It was a little strange, and his mind immediately wandered to a terrifying place. Was he dead in the real world?

Alex was growing impatient. He prodded at his sides and insisted that they leave, but Louis did nothing of it. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry, I’m-”

“You’re Louis.”

“I… Yes.”

“Pleasure.”

Before he had a chance to add anything, he was being dragged away, his hand engulfed in Alex’s. He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. Had it not been for Alex’s obvious enthusiasm to drag him through the rosebush tunnel, he would’ve most certainly lashed out on him. The strong flowery smell grabbed him by the throat as they wandered in, looking around in wonder, sunlight seeping in through the leaves like droplets of golden rain.

Far behind them, near the shrubs, Harry stood up slowly, rubbing his hands together in a weak attempt of cleaning them. He stared blankly at the boys from afar, until they disappeared from his field of view.

“Know what this place reminds me of?” Louis said once they reached the end of the tunnel.

“Tell me.”

“Alice in Wonderland. Sometimes I feel like this is all too good to be true. Like there’s some sort of trap laying ahead.”

“Alice in Wonderland,” he repeated with an amused chuckle. “What’s that?”

“It was your favourite book when you were a child… Don’t you remember?”

Alex kept on laughing. “Sadly I don’t. What’s the story about, then. Who’s Alice?”

Louis stared at him, not making much effort to mask his disappointment. And for good reason, too. Alex had been the one to introduce him to the story. He’d ramble about the bloody book day and night. One evening, they’d met up in the school library, and in the narrow passage between the bookshelves they’d sat side by side, all close and cozy, and Alex had read him his favourite parts in a low, whispered voice.

They ambled leisurely around the garden and its surroundings, chatting mindlessly - it wasn’t so mindless, for Louis. He came to realize that there was very little that Alex- or whoever was pretending to be him - remembered, or rather, _knew_ , about their relationship beyond the door. Little details, like their friends’ names, the places they liked to visit, the books they read to each other, their favourite songs - none of these even rung a bell to him. The few things he did know boiled down to vague generalities. No details, save for, of course, the nickname he used to give him.

The fact that whoever this was could not even comprehend the bond and the extent of their love back then, or even recall the memories that Louis held so close to his heart was downright devastating. He looked just like Alex, down to the tiny intricate details in his irises - but that wasn’t enough. It would _never_ be enough. Just an empty, pale copy of the man he knew.

On their way back, they crossed the young neighbour’s path again. He was carrying three stacked up bags of potting soil. As he walked past them, Alex tripped him. Unsurprisingly, Harry collapsed, pulled down by the weight of the bags. Louis was livid. “What is wrong with you?” he shot at Alex. “Why have you done that?”

“Didn’t mean to,” he defended himself, not even bothering to apologize before heading off.

Louis rushed to help the boy who was now on his knees, trying to gather the soil that had burst out of the bag. He crouched down to try to help. “All right?”

“I’m fine,” he said, calmly.

“Sorry about him. Don’t know what’s gotten into him, he’s usually not… I mean, I don’t think I know exactly who he is anymore.”

“It’s all right,” he dismissed him. “I’m used to it.”

“What, being tripped?”

“Among other things. Some people just aren’t… very fond of me, to put it lightly.”

“How come? You seem… nice. I mean, that garden must’ve taken you days. You’ve worked on it so everybody could enjoy it. That’s very sweet of you.”

Harry just shrugged, feigning innocence. The good thing about Harry was that, unlike everybody else he’d met in this world, he was the least unsettling of them, and the most authentic. He didn’t smile for no reason, he wasn’t particularly cheerful, and though he seemed to know who Louis was, his life didn’t seem to revolve around making him happy.

“I thought everything in this world was perfect,” added Louis.

“Well, it’s close enough.” he concluded, and stood up. “But there’s no such thing as perfection.”

“Do you need help with the bags? I could-”

He was cut short when he heard a young girl’s voice calling out to him, by the fountain. “Louis!” He stood up in turn. Hester was crouched down near the swing set. She looked upset. “Will you please come here.”

He turned around to apologize one last time to Harry.

He was gone. He looked around in confusion; he was nowhere to be seen. He’d quite literally vanished. He rushed towards the swings, where Maggie was sitting on the ground, her cheeks wet with tears. She’d likely fallen off her swing; her knee was all skinned. Rose sat beside her, looking every bit as upset as their older sister.

*

Louis and the girls found themselves in the main bathroom. It was huge, with black and white floor tiles, all shiny and sparkly. A large bathtub stood near the window, halfway filled with warm, soapy water. The twins wereplaying in the bath, the water sloshing about, lapping at the sides of the tub. After taking care of Maggie’s knee, Hester suggested it was time for the twins to take a bath. Back in his world, Louis had never had to bathe the little ones. Now he found himself kneeling by the tub with Hester. She’d told him it’d be over a lot quicker if he gave her a hand.

But as soon as the girls had peeled their dresses off, his breath had caught in his throat. They had the same awful scar that Alex had, right in the middle of their chest. He hadn’t said anything at first, too astounded to formulate a single thought. But now, as Hester was busy washing little Rose’s hair, he found the strength to ask, “The scar…”

“Mhm,” she mumbled distractedly, inciting him to carry on.

“What’s happened to them? Alexander had the same one. I noticed it yesterday.” And when he said that, he felt his cheeks heating up. After all, he did just confess that he’d gotten intimate with him last night.

“Well, they’re not the only ones,” she simply said. “Here. Have a look… There’s only so much I can show you, but…”

She turned to him, undoing the first two buttons of her dress, revealing a part of her own scar. He stared at it in disbelief, and then looked her in the eye; hers were alight with a puzzling twinkle. She smiled.

“Everybody’s got one. Including our parents.” She poked Louis’ chest with her finger, right in the middle, where the scar should be. “You’re the odd one out.”

He was dumbstruck.

When Hester deemed the girls clean enough, they helped them out of the tub, one by one, and wrapped them in large, warm, fuzzy towels.

“Another thing,” he said, careful. “ Yesterday I noticed… I couldn’t hear his heart. Alex’s, I mean. He had no pulse.”

Hester sat on the floor, holding little Maggie close to her as she tickled her. The little girl’s giggles echoed in the room.

“And? Why do you think that is?” Hester pressed with a smile.

“You’ve… You don’t have a heart. The lot of you. But that’s nonsense, isn’t it? I mean… It does make sense, but it just…”

“When you put it like that, it sounds a bit offensive, but that’s the truth. We don’t. And we don’t need hearts. We’re very much alive, still, aren’t we? Alive and well, see for yourself.”

For what seemed to be the hundredth time in the span of a week, his blood ran cold, and shivers ran down his spine. The scar surely implied that they must’ve once had a heart In his mind, the disturbing images of a cruel and senseless operation to remove them materialized in his mind.

“I think I’m going to go home, now.”

“But _you’re_ home,” said Hester with a frown.

“You know what I mean. I’m going home to the… the real world. Besides, it’s getting late. Surely, my family must be wondering where I am. I’ve been gone for hours.”

“You’re leaving before dinner?” she asked, as if offended by the mere idea. “Mother’s been up on her feet all day… She hasn’t left the kitchen for God’s sakes. That wouldn’t be very nice of you.”

“I… well, I’m sorry, I truly am. I just don’t want my parents to get worked up. It must be at least six in the afternoon. Or seven, what do I know.”

Little Maggie stopped fussing about in her sister’s arms and simply snuggled up against her. Hester looked at him with contemplative eyes. “Look at your watch,” she said.

And Louis did just that. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The same time he’d gotten here. Not a single minute had gone by since he’d walked through the door. The seconds hand, upon first glance, seemed motionless. But as he looked closely he realized it was simply moving very, very slowly.

“Soon you’ll see things _our_ way,” Hester added.

He caved.

He had dinner with the family simply because he was afraid of upsetting them. Until now, he hadn’t seen his other family expressing anything else than good cheer and exuberance in his presence. God only knows what they might be like when they were angry, or disappointed. He’d just gotten used to being around them. He’d only just started to feel a bit more comfortable when the missing heart situation came up, a troubling detail that was biting at him from the inside and making him question everything. He sat at the end of the table, as usual, and watched them eat and chat and joke and laugh, and he didn’t take any part in it.

Though he tried, he could not get past the terrifying truth that Hester had revealed to him earlier.

“You’re looking quite alarmed, my boy,” his other father pointed out, his mouth half full of food. “Something wrong?”

Hester replied before he could, biting into her bread, “I’ve told him we’ve no heart. He hasn’t looked well since.”

“Is that what’s troubling you, then?” asked his other father. “If so, let me ask you a simple question. What’s so different between us and your fellow people with beating hearts, at the other side of the door? Except perhaps for the fact that we appreciate you, and love you much more than they ever could. If there’s one thing you must know, it’s that here, we’ve only got your best interests, and your absolute happiness at heart. Well, at heart, so to speak.”

The other mother chuckled quietly, covering her mouth with a tea towel.

He went on, “Aren’t you liking it here, Louis?”

And then he had the entire family’s insistent eyes on him. He could feel the weight of those looks.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I love this place, I do. And you’ve been more than good to me. But… I think I should just head home for the day.”

Hester just dismissed his words with the back of her hand, as if to say, “Oh well.” And then she kept on eating.

“If that’s what you want, darling,” said his other mother as he stood up from the table. “Come back soon,” she gave him a little smile, one that didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. “We’ll be here. Forever and always.”

His eye twitched as he heard that last sentence. “I’d like to say goodbye to Alexander.”

The woman pointed towards the stairs with her eyes, as if to indicate that he was up there, probably in the guest room. Louis thanked her and rushed upstairs to find him. He pushed open the door and stepped inside the room with small, light steps. There he was, lying on the bed with a book in his hand, as he often seemed to do. He closed the book as soon as Louis came in, and looked up at him.

“They’re having dinner,” said Louis. “Why didn’t you join us?”

“I’m not very hungry.”

By then, the scandalous interaction between Alex and Harry was already long-forgotten. He was all he cared about, right in that moment. He went and sat down by the end of the mattress. “I’m going home, Alex. I want you to come with me. I know so many things could go wrong, but I’m willing to try. I want you in my life.”

“I can’t,” he said, calmly. “It’s impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“It just is,” he replied, flatly. “I cannot walk through that door the way you do. Besides, why would I want to cross over? Your world’s _awful_ in every way.”

“What could you possibly know about my world?” he contended, though he had no reason to be so defensive.

Alex just scoffed, and then laughed dryly. He shifted on the bed, sitting up straight. “Well, first of all, I know we wouldn’t be able to love each other in broad daylight, now, could we? Your world despises people like you and me. We’d be miserable, and forced to hide for the rest of our lives. You people love to hurt each other. You’re heartless, the lot of you. Yet you’re the ones with a pulse, aren’t you?”

Louis wished he could’ve come up with a counterpoint, but the truth was, Alex was right all the way down the line. Eyes downcast, he fumbled with a loose thread from the blanket. Alex took advantage of that short lull to add another layer.

“If you stay here, I promise you, you’ll be happy for the rest of your life. There won’t be a dull, or sad moment, not a single one.”

“But that’s just… That’s just not how things work, is it?”

“Take it from me. I’ve heard stories about your world. I know what it is to be miserable. And there’s none of it here.”

“Staying here. You mean… forever?”

“Yes. And I’ll be right here with you, my little dove. I’ll love you. I’ll be everything to you. Remember; in your world, I’m six feet under. You’d never see me again. If you love me, like you say, then stay."

“Don’t do that,” he muttered harshly. “I can’t just… I need time. I’ve got a life, over there.”

“Is that right?” he smirked. “Tell me about it? How exciting it must be.”

“I need time,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

“Fine. It’s up to you, after all. We can’t really keep you hostage.”

Louis decided this conversation was over, so he got to his feet and walked to the door.

“Just so you know,” Alex called out. “The door won’t stay open forever. So make up your mind. Quickly.”


	4. Chapter 4

It would be several days before Louis decides to come back. He’d pass past the drawing room, steal a worried glance towards the door, and keep on walking. And every day, the portrait of the lady with the flowers got just a little bit darker - as if the lady herself had made a personal offence of his reluctance. Her traits were harsh, tense, and her eyes were colder than he remembered them to be. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary manifested itself in those few days.

He missed Alexander - the real one, that is. Not the one who was merely a physical copy of him in the other world, and who seemed to live only to please him. It wasn’t exactly ideal, was the thing. In fact, it turned out the idea of another Alexander troubled him to no end. The more time he spent in the real world, the clearer he could see; the illusory fog was wearing off, not as much as it should have, but it was certainly a start. That morning he lay in bed with the curtains drawn, turned on his side, in his hands the only photograph he had of Alex. He contemplated the face of his lover, numbly, tirelessly, his thumb stroking the smooth surface of the paper.

He came out of his room just before breakfast. He padded quietly along the corridor on his way to the staircase, and stopped in his tracks when he saw that Hester’s door was halfway open. She often made a point in keeping it religiously shut - and made a habit out of lashing out on whoever left it open after they exited her room. He peeked in, hidden and quiet so as not to alarm her. And there Hester was, staring at her reflection in front of her full-length mirror. Her hair was done, and she was wearing a red dress that suited her beautifully. She applied a deep red lipstick, smacking her lips together before donning a smile, whispering to herself, “Why, of course… Of course I’d like to dance with you… Oh, yes, Oliver, I do.”

Louis held back his laughter, biting the inside of his cheeks. She struck a pose, and then another one, and kept on repeating her lines as if she were rehearsing a play.

A wooden slat creaked under his foot; Hester spun around at once, her cheeks tinted red. “Get out of my room!”

*

Later that same morning, he saw her running to the front door. She rushed to the mailbox, and when she came back she was completely out of breath, and her hair and face were damp from the rain. She was quite evidently striving to stifle her joy. Her eyes were shining with emotion as she handed the mail to her father - what the man didn’t quite catch was the letter she’d kept for herself, barely hidden in the pocket of her dress, just peeking out. Louis had seen it for sure. He assumed it was the reason why she looked just about ready to jump for joy. He supposed, without fear of being wrong, that the letter was from this Oliver person she dreamed about day and night. Naturally, he’d heard of the boy. Actually, overheard was a better term. He’d become aware of his existence when Hester’s girlfriends would come over to spend the afternoon and start chatting a tad too loudly. He’d never seen him of course, but there was no doubt in his mind he had Hester’s heart. And he also knew their parents ought not to find out about this boy.

Louis was reading the mystery novel he’d bought from the bookstore when Hester snuck into the drawing room in turn, tearing open the envelope with feverish impatience and shaky fingers. She must’ve not noticed his presence. _Good_ , he thought.

She pulled out the letter - two sheets of paper folded in three, and immediately started to read with her back leaning against the wall. A few strands of her hair were still wet and dangling in front of her face, her eyes racing from left to right. The smile she’d had at first was gradually fading away as she read, and her eyebrows knit together in a bitter expression. Was he giving her bad news?

Soon her eyes filled with tears, but she seemed more furious than anything else. She didn’t even finish reading and crushed the paper in her first. In her fury, she threw the letter in the empty fireplace, in hopes that they would be reduced to ashes as soon as they would light the fire that night. That was when she acknowledged Louis’ presence. He’d been there all along. They stared at each other in silence. Under any other circumstances, Hester would’ve swallowed her tears and gritted her teeth; he knew she’d much rather die than be caught showing the slightest sign of weakness in front of him - or anyone for that matter. Except now she did not hold back. Her eyes were full of tears, and Louis would be lying if he said he didn’t feel for her. He’d had his heart broken too. Perhaps it couldn’t possibly compare, but he understood.

“What?” she snapped, coldly.

He pondered for a while, and then left his novel on the sofa and stood up. “I need to show you something.”

Hester just frowned, visibly unimpressed. He approached the fireplace and grabbed a small vase from the top. He turned it upside down; the key fell out. As soon as he took a step towards the door, Hester anticipated, “Again with the bloody door! My God, you’re stubborn. You know there’s nothi-”

“Just look.”

He pushed the key into the lock and pulled the handle.

Only to find himself in front of a brick wall. Hester shook her head and left without another word. Louis watched her walk away, helpless. He shut the door in defeat, but as soon as he did, a piece of paper slid from underneath the gap. He sighed in frustration but picked it up regardless.

**Only you. Thought I should make it clear.** ****

This time it wasn’t Alex’s writing. It was neat, spaced out and rather elegant, the letters traced in a beautiful black. He was too caught up in the absurdity of it all that he failed to notice the double-loop in the letter O.

He opened the door once again. And of course - of course - the wall was gone. He did not hesitate for a second and rushed inside, body tense and heart throbbing with indignation, so loud he was certain he could hear it beating against the narrow walls of the corridor. What lay beyond those walls, anyway? It seemed to him that this passage was the bridge between two parallel worlds. Did it happen to be a place out of time and space? Some sort of no man’s land where nothing could happen to him? It was dark. It was always dark in there. He stopped walking and looked around, and then started knocking against the walls on either side of him, perhaps as an attempt of being heard by whoever - or _what_ ever was on the other side. When his hand hit the wood, the sound echoed around. The walls seemed to be hollow.

When he entered the other drawing room, it was with an aim. He stomped in there like he owned the place, with a firm and determined step. His other mother was sitting on the big sofa, her hands busy with her handiwork. She looked up at him as a flash of relief took over her features. It was very brief, just like lightning, but he’d caught it. It soon gave way to her usual good mood and put-up smile. “Hello, darling. You’re back at last. It’s been so long, we-”

“Why me?” he shot.

The woman didn’t seem to understand what he was getting at. She set her work down on her lap and questioned him with her eyes.

“Why me?” he repeated firmly. “Why is it just me? Why can’t my sister cross the door with me?”

With her constant smile and good cheer, she had a knack for irking him. She looked him straight in the eye. It was deeply unsettling to know that this person right there was not his real mother, though she was a perfect carbon copy of her. “I’ve no idea,” she replied. “But you came back. It’s all that matters. Are you hungry, my love?”

“Who wrote this?” he practically shoved the piece of paper in her face. She didn’t budge, and simply took it from his hands without even looking at it.

“None of us. Odd things can occur in this corridor. It’s almost as old as time. If your door’s not sealed properly, some things may just… slip out.”

“But see, I never said I found it under the door.”

There was a beat of silence during which the other mother was at loss for words - which was rare. She didn’t lose the bloody smile. And then a small voice was heard from the hallway between the drawing room and the kitchen, “It’s you he wants. And you’ve angered him.”

He turned his head to see little Maggie standing there with a doll in her hand. The other mother looked at her in turn as her face dropped and turned cold and haughty; she _glared_ at the child, her eyes suddenly bitter and mean. It was frightening to see. Maggie paid it no mind. She remained still and unbothered.

“Margaret, dearie, would you be so kind as to go back to your room? I’ll call you both when lunch is ready.”

Her voice was low, but firm and quite icy nonetheless. Maggie gave Louis one last look, and then disappeared upstairs.

“Who was she talking about?”

His other mother dismissed his words with the back of her hand, “Children, you know. Always spewing nonsense. Will you give me a hand in the kitchen?”

And just like that, she’d turned soft again, like nothing had just happened. The piano in the far corner started playing by itself; a swift and intricate melody he was sure he’d heard before. The woman set her handiwork aside and went into the kitchen. Louis did not follow her right away. Instead he just stood there and had a look around the room. There was nothing out of the ordinary, except for the painting. It was alive. The lady and her two children were moving, the wind blew through the trees, their green leaves shivering along with it. The children were racing around their mother, and sometimes they’d disappear behind her. The woman held the flower close to her heart and looked straight at Louis with a blank courteous smile. It was just like one of those silent films he’d once seen in the cinema. He stepped closer and reached out his hand to brush the canvas with his fingertips. Under his fascination, he forgot, for a little while, all of his resentment and confusion.

When he finally entered the kitchen, he stopped dead by the door. Alexander was standing next to his other mother. They were in front of the stove, he had an apron tied around his waist and an oven glove in his right hand. He spun around as soon as Louis stepped in, and gave him a sincere smile.

“What are you doing here?” asked Louis, a little harsher than he would’ve preferred.

“I’m helping my mother-in-law with the meal. It’s good to see you too, Louis.”

“Your mother-in-law,” he deadpanned, impassive.

“He’s helped me a lot while you were away,” said his other mother. “He’s a gifted cook, too. If you two end up sharing a place later you’ll be spoiled, most certainly.”

Louis stared them down suspiciously. A terrifying but somewhat plausible idea emerged in his mind. Could Alexander be the person Maggie was warning him about, earlier? He wouldn’t be surprised. After all, he hadn’t a doubt in his mind that this was just too good to be true. But she’d said he’d angered him. If he turned out to be right, Alexander was hiding his game very well.He took it upon himself to help them with the meal.

“So,” said his other mother. “How were those few days in the other world?”

“The _real_ world,” corrected Louis.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said with a teasing wink. “The _real_ world.” When she said those words, it sounded like she was mocking him. “How was it then?”

“It was fine.”

“Yes? Tell me, then. How’s your… real mother?” she asked, clearly making an effort to use a vocabulary he wouldn’t rectify. She cracked an egg over a tiny bowl and shot him a look, pressing for an answer.

Alex wiped his hands with a tea towel and then went to hug him from behind - a comforting gesture that reminded him a bit too much of the boy he’d lost beyond the door. His heart broke at the mere thought of it. How could he miss someone when they were there with him? He was convinced that this conflict of emotions would take him down sooner or later.

“She’s all right,” he said at first, and then resigned himself to tell them the truth. “Well, actually she’s… not doing so well. She’s ill.”

“Is that right? Poor thing.” She held a spoonful of soup to her mouth and tasted it. “God. How sad it must be. Don't you think?”

She’d addressed Alex, who tightened his embrace around Louis’ body, leaning in to press a soft kiss in the hollow of his neck.

“It sounds terrible,” said Alex. “We never get sick here.”

“Is that true?” Louis asked, innocently.

“Of course it is. Why would we lie to you?”

“And… That must mean you’re immortal, I suppose.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she replied, boosting the fire on the stovetop.

Louis felt the need to clarify, “ _I’m_ not.”

Alex and his other mother exchanged a complicit look. He understood right there and then, that there was still a lot that they kept hidden from him.

“How can you be sure?” she questioned him. “Have you ever tried dying?”

Her smile was wise and cunning, and sent shivers down his spine.

“Well, no, but…”

“I’m just teasing. Will you please set the table?”

*

After the meal, his other father beckoned him to join him in his study. The room was very elegantly decorated, and much brighter that the one he knew. The walls were lined with black and white photographs of pretty women, and theatre programmes in frames. The promotional posters were works of art in themselves, attractive and promising. He couldn’t name a single actor or actress depicted in them.

His other father was sitting in front of his large wooden desk, in the middle of which stood a state-of-the-art typewriter. Louis soon found out he was one of the most renowned drama critics in the country. He knew about all the English-language theatre plays of the last few decades - and his works were among the most esteemed in the field. Louis was quite frankly impressed, as his real father hadn’t the slightest interest in theatre.

The man rummaged through the bottom of a drawer while Louis watched him, standing by the door with his hands behind his back. His other father turned to him, two little tickets in hand, and a million dollar smile stretching his lips, revealing a row of sparkling teeth.

“I thought you and your boyfriend might like to go see a play tonight. It’s one of my favourites this season. It’s a musical. And I’ll bet you everything I own, that it’ll blow your mind.”

*

When evening fell, Louis had only one thing in mind. He was most excited about the play, as he hadn’t been to the theatre in what seemed like years. A little entertainment wasn’t out of the question. And besides, in this very world he expected to be nothing short of blown away.

He didn’t have to look long in his closet to find something to wear. Alex sat on his bed, watching him as he picked a pair of black trousers, very well fitted, and a crisp white shirt. Alex helped him readjust his collar, and folded the little cuffs. “Don’t you look dashing,” he whispered with a smile.

While his fingers were busy arranging the sleeves, Louis just stared at him in awe, as if under a spell, so deeply enraptured by the way he looked. Their resemblance was simply striking, though he still had a hard time coping with it all. Everything was perfect, down to the smallest detail. The length of his eyelashes when he looked down, the way his chestnut hair shined in the light, the two tiny moles on his cheek, and this endearing habit he had of clenching his jaw whenever he was focused on a task.

Overwhelmed, suddenly, Louis brought his hand up to the boy’s cheek, inciting him to look up, and then he leaned in to kiss him, right there under the dim light of his bedroom. He hadn’t a clue why he’d done it - perhaps it was to prove to himself that his feelings for the boy were genuine, or at least, that there was hope.

They pulled apart, and Alexander placed both hands on Louis’ waist, “Shall we go, then?”

*

The other Upper Redley was something straight out of a Hollywood film. It was opulent and splendid, and what had seemed to him to be a dull and frankly depressing town now rivalled, with a jarring contrast, the grandeur and the elegance of Manhattan. Tall buildings towering over the streets, dazzling city lights, streetcars and bars and restaurants - it was alive and kicking. He walked hand in hand with Alex, skirting the sidewalks and avoiding passersby, each one more stylish, colourful and eccentric than the last. Traffic was heavy, and soon he found himself overwhelmed with all the noise and the urban commotion. Rosewood Hall was conveniently kept hidden and sheltered from the hustle and bustle of this place.

He noticed there was not a single trace of the Great War. No crumbling posters. No war veterans in sight. He listened absentmindedly as Alex praised this one bar he’d supposedly spent his evening at, a few days ago.

They crossed paths with two young women in flapper clothing, dressed in red and black art deco dresses with low necklines and hems that barely reached their knees, long gloves that stretched all the way up to their elbows, stylish headbands and holding long, thin cigarette holders. One of them took a puff, and blew the smoke as she walked past Louis, shooting him a wink.

When they got to the theatre, he was surprised when he recognized the Winter Garden. There was an absurdly long line in front of the double doors, with a valet at the entrance, a red carpet and a large, luminous white signboard with the title of the play written in big, bold, black letters: TONIGHT: _Ragtime Gal!_

They only waited in line for a few minutes, and when they finally got to show their tickets, the clerk lingered for a while on Louis with a full, ingratiating smile. “Enjoy the show.”

They settled in at last. These weren’t the best seats - they were neither in the orchestra or the mezzanine, but they were rather close to the stage. Not too close that they would have to crane their necks to see the stage, just enough to enjoy the show comfortably, and see the actors without straining their eyes. Louis sat down on one of the red velvet seats, by Alexander’s side. The place was packed, and he knew for a fact that people were still queuing up outside.

Alex gently took his hand and leaned closer to kiss him on the cheek. For some reason, the mere gesture irked him.

The doors closed, the lights went out, and people settled in. Soon, a religious silence was observed in the room. Twelve quick knocks were heard against the wood, then three separate ones, a little nod to the tradition of the French theatre.

A telephone started ringing on stage, a shrill ring-ring that resonated until it reached the ears of the furthest spectators. Finally, the big curtain rose, revealing the first actor standing on the right side of the stage.

Louis’ jaw dropped. He knew exactly who this young man was. He was wearing a suit, holding the telephone handset against his ear. That was the neighbour from Apartment A, the one who’d taken such good care of the garden.

Harry.

The spotlight was on him, while the rest of the stage remained submerged in darkness. He had one foot leaning against the edge of a chair, his elbow pressed against his knee. In the background was a large painting supposed to represent the skyline of New York City. When the phone stopped ringing, someone picked it up. It was a woman’s voice who answered, resonating somewhere in the dark:

“Hello?”

A few piano notes prompted off the song, and then, under the enthusiastic eyes of the audience, he started to sing, his voice deep and mellow, a perfect fit for his role.

_“Hello my baby, hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal. Send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart's on fire… If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose me, then you'll be left alone. Oh baby, telephone, and tell me I'm your own…”_

At the end of his verse, a second spotlight brightened the left side of the stage, revealing the presence of a young woman half-lying on her bed. She had on a provokingly short nightie, and she was holding the phone against her ear, twisting her finger to wrap the wire around it. Behind her was the city of London. The woman herself was rather petite, her hair worn in a bob, just below her ear and slightly wavy, and her lips were a bright, crimson red. She sang in turn, answering him, in the sweetest, warmest voice he’d ever heard,

_“You call me on the telephone, you tell me that you're all alone, I know that you are lying through your teeth, you dirty rascal!”_

The crowd laughed at Harry’s bemusement. He was very expressive - he had to be. He exaggerated every facial expression and gestures as the woman picked up her chiding.

_“How can you expect me to believe the lies you hand me? You've been out with that blonde again, now do you understand me? You broke my heart and made me cry, with every phoney alibi, but I could see the lipstick on your shirt, you dirty polecat… Telephone, and tell me I’m your own.”_

Harry pulled open his blazer, showing the audience a deep red lipstick stain on his shirt. He and the girl started singing their first verses again, at the same time, so it was almost impossible to discern one speech from the other, giving the impression that they were bickering. The crowd laughed, and Louis smiled like an idiot, looking up at the stage as the lights twinkled in his eyes. He struck him as incredibly talented and charismatic. He gave off this light, like he was born to be on stage.

After a few verses, the actors seemed to reconcile, and when they sang together, their voices harmonized beautifully.

His heart missed a beat when Harry looked directly at him. And once their eyes crossed each other’s, Harry never did look away. Now when he sang, it seemed it was directed to him

_“…Send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart's on fire… If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose me, then you'll be left alone. Oh baby, telephone, and tell me I'm your own…”_

Louis’ bright smile dropped a little, but not entirely. He held his gaze, mostly confused. What exactly was he doing?

_“I'm sorry that I made you blue, it was a beastly thing to do, I shouldn't have upset you like I did, with Lil' the barmaid…”_

Alex leaned in to whisper in his ear, “He’s rather good, isn’t he?”

Louis turned his head and stared at him in disbelief, “I thought you hated him.”

“I didn’t know he was an actor.”

“That’ll teach you to judge people without knowing them.”

“Hm.” It was the only answer he’d deigned to give him as he turned his attention back to the play.

They’d already moved on to the next scene. The play was rather amusing, it made the audience laugh out loud more often than not, but it also had its serious and touching moments. It was a modern tale that mostly took place in America, where show-business was booming. It told the story of a simple, whimsical man who hoped to make it big in the acting world, but whose love for jazz, the ladies, the thrill of affairs and risqué adventures led him to his demise. It was devoid of any shame and any moral code Louis knew existed in his own world. In one scene, two actors, both men, were all over each other — not a soul batted an eye.

Despite the length of the play, there was no interlude. Louis didn’t mind at all, as he was so consumed by the show he’d almost forgotten where he was. To add to it, Harry kept stealing furtive glances at him. At times Louis would even go as far as to think he was addressing him, when certain lines sounded far too specific to be merely lines. It was curious. But he didn’t look that much into it.

It had to be said that Harry was stunning, especially now that he was on stage. He looked ravishing, a rare sort of beauty that he had, until now, never encountered. He was charming, singularly talented too, of course, and so very intriguing. He made a mental note of reaching out to him to congratulate him on his performance, whenever he would get the chance.

At the end of the play, for the final curtain call, the actors lined up on the stage and bowed down, their hands linked together. They were applauded and cheered, whistled and even thrown flowers at. Harry caught most of them with a heart-warming enthusiasm. Soon he had a full bouquet in his hands. He bowed one last time with a smirk before disappearing backstage

“What did you think?”

Louis didn’t look at him, his eyes stuck on the empty spot on the stage where Harry had previously been a while ago. “Loved it. It was brilliant.”

“It wasn’t their best. I’ve seen other plays from the same playwright - they were much more entertaining than this one. I got bored in the third act. To be honest, they could’ve done without it, or at least cut it short. That last monologue? God, it went on for _hours,_ it felt like. _”_

Louis just nodded in agreement, though he hadn’t really listened to a word he said. He had only one person in mind, and he didn’t seem to want to leave his thoughts anytime soon. Who was he, and what did he want from him? He decided he would get to the bottom of this tonight.

When Alex offered to treat him to dinner at a restaurant, Louis told him to wait for him outside as he had to use the bathroom.

“I’ll be there, by the door.”

“All right. Won’t be long.”

Louis watched him leave and pretended to head towards the back until he disappeared from his field of vision. He snuck in among the last spectators who were pouring out of the room, and soon came to find a small service corridor on the side of the stage. Feverish, he set off down the dark but rather noisy passage. It was buzzing with life, back there. He could see the actors rushing back and forth, hopping from one room to the other, some of them still in costume, others heading for the dressing rooms. He ran straight into the young lead actress of the play. She apologized profusely to him.

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “ _I’m_ sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Were you looking for him?”

“Huh? What d-”

“Dressing room number thirteen, on your left, down the hall.”

And then she disappeared. All this commotion made him a little anxious, and when he got to room number thirteen, he stopped, hesitant all of a sudden. Surely he couldn’t just knock at an actor’s door, could he? Was it something that people did? He might be busy, and wouldn’t very much appreciate being disturbed right after a big play. This was foolish.

He stared at the closed, wooden door in front of him. Little red hearts had been hand-drawn around the number thirteen. He didn’t make anything of it until much, much later. Though he hadn’t knocked, or hadn’t made a single noise to make himself noticed in any way, a male voice called out to him from inside just as he was preparing to leave. “Come in! It’s unlocked.”

Cautious in his movements, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.

There he was, all alone, in a dressing room made for at least three people, as he could tell by the number of chairs and mirrors, and by the space available on the table. Some faint jazz music was playing, though he couldn’t tell where it came from. Harry was sitting on the middle chair, with his feet propped up and crossed against the white surface of the table, among various items and props. The little lights framing the mirrors cast a bright, beautiful light on him. He was still in his suit from the play, but four buttons of his dress shirt were open, his tie was relaxed, revealing the presence of that infamous scar on his chest, the one that everybody seemed to have. The bouquet of flowers had been placed inside a large vase half-filled with water, where a couple of other flowers were already wilting. He was accumulating them, it seemed. Among all the clutter on the table, Louis spotted a frightening amount of makeup. Lipsticks, brushes, eyeshadows and dodgy tools. It couldn’t have been his, he thought at first. But evidently, it was. In his hand, he was holding a tube of red lipstick.

As soon as Louis entered the room, Harry turned his head towards him.

“Good evening,” he greeted in a low voice. “Enjoyed the show?”

“Oh, I did,” he said before clearing his throat. “I thought you were brilliant. You are. I didn’t know you were in the theatre.”

“The theatre is my whole life,” he said. “And the night’s still young, see, I’ve got another play in less than an hour. A _vaudeville_ in which I managed to snatch the lead role. The highlight of my night will be when I get to yell, _‘Heavens! My husband!’_ , and then faint dramatically… That’s what this genre’s known for, after all.”

Louis chuckled softly, and then, turned his attention to the tube of lipstick. At the same time, he noticed some fishnet stockings thrown over the back of a chair. “Is this all yours?” he asked, prudently.

“Of course, it’s all mine,” he replied. “The entire dressing room, and everything in it, belongs to me. Nobody wants to share it, anyway. They’re _actors_. They’re the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet. In case you haven’t noticed - we’re in room number thirteen.”

“That’s true.”

Louis stepped closer, and ran his fingers along the fishnet stockings. “You’ll put that on, then?”

Harry gave him a teasing look, and a very suggestive grin, “Not right now, but yes. Yes, I will.”

“Why, though? Why would you want to play a woman’s role when you’re practically surrounded by actresses?”

“I like to play dress-up. And you’ll find I’m very good at it. Women’s roles are a challenge I love to take on. I’ve played them in the past. Major roles, too. Madame Arcati. The nurse in Romeo. Lady Augusta Bracknell, you name it.”

Louis didn’t know what to say. He was at once fascinated, intrigued and intimidated by this character. Since he didn’t look too convinced, Harry set out to show him. He opened the tube, brought his feet down from the table and got closer to the mirror before applying the colour to his lips, gently, delicately. He dabbed the excess by closing his mouth on a handkerchief, running his hand through his curly hair to fix it.

“Am I not woman enough?” He turned to Louis once again, as if to seek his approval - or admiration, who knew. He felt the blood rush underneath his cheeks as Harry pressed, his eyes flickering in front of his mirror lights.

“It suits you,” is all he could say. “The red looks good on you.”

“Well,” he said, evidently satisfied with his reaction. “Sure, there’s a lot more to a woman than just her appearance, but you get the gist. Say, would you like to watch me perform on stage later?”

Louis nodded sharply, and then he changed his mind. “I haven’t got any more tickets. Besides it’s getting late. I should go home.”

Harry stared him down, with a hungry look that bordered on predation. “Suit yourself.”

“But I would have loved to see you. Maybe some other time. When’s the next show?”

“Tomorrow, most certainly. And the day after tomorrow. And the day after that. The stage is never empty for more than half an hour at a time. There’s always a play. Always a song. Always a story. Day in, day out. As they say, the show must go on… Forever and always.”

“Don't you... don't you ever stop? Don't you ever close the doors?”

“Never. Like I said, the show must go on.”

Before he had the chance to reply, there were three little knocks at the door. Whoever was standing outside deemed it enough and did not even wait for Harry’s answer. They walked in; and to Louis’ surprise, it was Alex. Without a word, he simply grabbed Louis by the arm and dragged him out of the dressing room and into the, now, empty corridor.

“What is wrong with you?” Louis blurted out, furious.

“Why’d you lie to me?” he asked. “Never mind that, I don’t want you near him.”

“Why not?” he retorted dryly. “I was just telling him how much I enjoyed the play. He’s our neighbour. And besides, I can do and speak to whoever I want. You don’t get to order me around, I’m free.”

“Louis, will you please just listen to-”

“No,” he cut him. “I don’t know you. You obviously don’t know me. This is hard enough for me as it is, so please…”

With his eyes downcast, Alex replied in a flat but somehow cautionary tone, “What do you mean?”

“I come here to escape my life. You were… You were _dead_ to me. Can you wrap your head around that? You’re not like him at all. And for you to start acting like this is just… Who do you think you are?”

“All right,” he said. “Shall we just call it a night, then?”

Louis didn’t answer.

“I’ll take you home.”

“You do that.”

Louis led the way, heading towards the exit.

The main street was still very much alive and busy despite the late hour. People were lining up outside the doors, tickets in hand for the next show. They walked past them as Louis stared longingly at them. 

Whenever Alex would get too close, Louis would take a step to the side, and he kept his hand in his pocket so he wouldn’t try to hold it. He also kept his head bowed too as they hurried along the pavement and past the fancy, intricate storefronts. At any other time Louis would’ve slowed down and perhaps pop into each one of the little shops just to have a look. This town was nothing short of dazzling and, curious and nosy as he was, he would’ve likely spent the night running around to experience everything it had to offer. All the shops and places he knew had gone bankrupt in the real world were doing extraordinarily well, here. The streets were full of life and light and music, however he could no longer find it in himself to care nor be impressed by this world, when the most precious thing he had, had been violently snatched away from him in the blink of an eye, and replaced with a vulgar copy who couldn’t even bother to act like the real Alexander would. Perhaps he was asking for too much. He wasn’t sure. What he did know was that his heart was aching, and that grief was eating him up.

“Alex?”

They both stopped in front of a tiny café and stood face to face.

“What’s the matter?”

Louis weighed his words, and then brought himself to say them, “I don’t think I want to do this anymore. You’re not… You.”

“I’m not sure I’m following. I _am_ me,” he replied, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I meant… you’re not _him_. You could never be. You just look like him. And for a while I thought it’d be enough. I thought wrong, see. No one could replace him. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

Louis didn’t realize he was crying until Alex stepped closer to wipe his tears.

“There,” he whispered, brushing his thumb against Louis’ wet cheek. “I understand. I do. I’m sorry, too. I thought I could live up to the boy you loved but… Obviously now, that’s just not how things work. I like you, though. You’re good. You’re kind. And I’m sorry… I’m truly sorry for your loss. I suppose I’ve only made things harder, haven’t I?”

“No,” he sniffed. “You haven’t. You’ve helped a bit, actually.”

“That’s good to hear,” he whispered with a small, apologetic smile. “I do hope you’ll make the right decision. No matter what happens. You deserve to be happy.”

Louis wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that. He would later learn that by “good decision” he meant “leave, never come back, and throw the key in the ditch”.

“I think I should head off, then,” said Alex. “Do you need me to walk you home?”

“No,” he said, wiping away the last of his tears. “I think I’ll stay out for a bit.”

“Sure… Take care. You be careful out there.”

Alex leaned in for one last kiss on the cheek, and then turned around and walked away with his hands buried in his pockets and his head down. Louis didn’t take his eyes off him until he disappeared at the turn of a tiny alley.

He felt like he’d just lost him all over again.

For the first time ever, he found himself completely alone in the other world. A new wave of tears pooled in his eyes but he wiped them off before they could fall, rather harshly. He looked at his watch: an hour had scarcely passed beyond the door. No matter how long he’d been here, it was still all so foreign and strange to him. At school, he was rather good at physics. It was odd that he’d accepted so easily that this place could simply disregard its basic rules.

With a determined step, Louis turned back and soon found himself in front of the Winter Garden’s doors. The clerk was surprised to see him.

“Hello again. Tickets?”

“Haven’t got any.” He felt stupid.

“Well, no worries. It’s on the house tonight. Enjoy the show.”

No questions asked, Louis practically ran inside and found an empty seat right before they closed the doors, and waited for the show to begin. His mind wandered in a dark place again, thoughts of him haunting him and gripping his throat, like a firm hand closing in around his neck.

The curtains rose but, blinded by grief, a handful of oddities just slipped past him. For instance, he failed to notice the many, many doubles in the room, an extraordinary number of twins and, what seemed like faceless people. Immobile, like mannequins, with blurred features, only a vague idea of what a human face was supposed to look like. He didn’t notice them, as they were sitting in the mezzanine and in the dark, in the very back rows. In his immediate vicinity, there was nothing out of the ordinary. People were much more detailed, they moved and talked and looked as natural as they could be. The whole thing was akin to the rushed, hasty work of a comic book author. He also didn’t notice that the audience’s laughter would repeat itself at times, like a one-track, broken record.

He didn’t recognize Harry immediately. It took him a while to realize it really _was_ him in this femme fatale disguise. Even dressed as a woman from head to toe, he was still incredibly attractive. And funny, too. In no time at all, Louis went from tears of sadness to ones of laughter.

Some character ripped off one of the actresses’ blouse on stage, making her gasp loudly and cover her mouth dramatically in front of the delirious crowd, Louis spotted this long, deep scar in between her breasts.

Just before the interlude, he could’ve sworn Harry had blown him a kiss from the stage. He was certain he was looking at him.

He didn’t know then just how right he was.

He didn’t realize this was all just an illusion.

That it was, in fact, just the two of them in that room.


	5. Chapter 5

The return to the real world was brutal. With everything that had occurred, how couldn’t it have been?

One evening, he was busy reading his mystery novel in the drawing room, right in front of the painting. The lady with the flowers no longer frightened him - on the contrary now, she was a reassuring reminder that on the other side of that door was a world in which he could lead a life worthy of the name. He couldn’t wait to go back. In fact, the idea of going and never returning was slowly creeping its way into his mind. Who would even mourn his loss? Who would even notice?

In his novel, while the investigation was already well under way, a tiny detail piqued his attention. The intervention of a graphologist - whose authenticity and credibility was often questioned - in the solving of the crime suddenly reminded him of something he’d seen not long ago. As he was studying the handwriting of one of the suspects, the graphologist noted a peculiarity in the way he traced his O’s. In his line of work, a double loop in the letter O meant that the author of these words was not to be trusted, and often turned out to be a pathological liar.

He paused his reading, recalling the writing on the cake, and the last piece of paper that had been slipped underneath the door.

Though his credulity had often harmed him in the past, this time he’d already suspected that he was being lied to in some way. It didn’t exactly come as a surprise that the fantasy world he’d found behind that door wasn’t all it seemed to be. Behind the beauty of it, horrors were most certainly laying. Behind the fake smiles, lots of secrets. But if he was honest, it was not enough to keep him away. He had his fears, his questions, his mistrust that was left practically intact, but above all he had his curiosity, and his thirst to learn more about this universe that defied everything he’d ever considered normal.

Besides, now there was a boy. Harry. He was a mystery of his own, and he believed that solving it might help him recover from his loss.

*

He was back. By now it was a force of habit. He’d even started to get his bearings. It was different without Alexander, but he figured he must learn to live without him. His sanity depended on it. So, after a quick lunch with his other family, a simple and light moment, he went out to the garden for a walk, hoping to run into a certain neighbour.

By the path of roses, he found his older sister, elegantly dressed and nicely coiffed, in the arms of a young man he did not know. By the look of them, they were quite complicit. They chatted and laughed and teased each other, and he’d also seen them kiss once, under the tunnel. He supposed it must have been the other Oliver. In this universe, their love was requited, and Oliver was not some “poor, bloated fool”, as the real Hester once called him.

He was walking down the few steps that separated the back porch from the garden, his hand busy trying to swat away a pink butterfly, when he saw him. He was sitting on a white wooden swinging bench with a book in his hand. One foot on the bench, the other touching the floor to make it swing ever so slightly. His eyebrows were furrowed and he looked deeply immersed in his reading. Louis contemplated him from afar, pondering whether he should go and say hello.

A tiny, light chime tinkled almost imperceptibly, somewhere in the distance, as the gentle breeze blew through it. Louis didn’t recall a more peaceful moment in his life than this one. He didn’t dare to disturb him. And so, just as he was about to walk away, Harry looked up from his book. Now, it wasn't the first time Louis had seen his eyes. But right there, in the natural light, under the sun, they were so profoundly green, he was convinced he’d never seen anything quite like it.

“Hello,” said Louis, all coy.

“Hello,” he echoed. “Have a seat?”

“I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t. I like company.” Harry shifted to the side of the bench and patted the place next to him. Louis did as he was told. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Harry said, closing his book and looking up at the sky.

“Has this world ever known a gloomy day?”

Harry seemed to think about it for a while. “Some days are cloudier than others. It hardly ever rains.”

“What about the plants?”

“They can last a very long time without any water. The last time it rained was two years ago. It’d poured all afternoon.”

There was a short moment of silence. Everything he said intrigued him. Every time he spoke, he wanted to rebound with at least ten questions. It wasn’t so odd, considering Louis came from a world with a certain set of rules that dictated how everything worked, and which he could easily understand. Life was different here. And he was dying to know everything about it. He started with the basics.

“How old are you?”

With his foot touching the ground, Harry gave a little push which made the bench sway slightly. He tilted his head while maintaining eye contact. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. I’d say, eighteen, or twenty.”

“Eighteen or twenty? Which is it?”

Louis smiled, a little embarrassed. “Twenty. I don’t know.”

“Twenty?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, twenty.”

“In that case?” he repeated, visibly amused. “Don’t you know your own age?”

“Sure I do.

“I guessed right, then.”

As he grew just a little more confident, Louis shifted a bit closer to him. Harry gave him an affectionate smile, his eyes moving back and forth between Louis’ eyes and mouth.

He added, “Do you live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“No parents around?”

“No.”

“Are they dead?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

His heart dropped. He was right. He was being too intrusive, too soon. He’d never been good with beginnings. He was clumsy and perhaps a tad too eager whenever he liked someone. Alexander had taken on the tedious task of winning him over and overcoming his awkwardness.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m just trying to figure out how this world works.”

“That’s all right,” Harry reassured him in a low, soft voice, as his eyes grew tender. “My parents aren’t dead. They’re just not around.”

“Have you lived here all your life?”

“In Rosewood Hall, yes. I was there before they split the house in three.”

“But… Wasn’t that over a century ago?”

Harry paused before answering, “In your world, maybe. As far as I know, it’s only been a few years here.”

He took the time to appreciate the fact that Harry had said “your world” and not “the other world”, like the rest of his family tended to do, whether unconsciously, or just as a way to look down on it.

When it was Harry’s turn to ask questions, he frankly wished he hadn’t.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

“He’s… Well, it’s quite complicated, actually. In my world, he’s dead,” he explained, his throat tight. “I’ve met him again, but it just wasn’t the same. We’ve called it quits recently. Staying with him did more harm than good.”

“That must be awful. I’m sorry for your loss.”

To avoid lingering on the matter, Louis changed the subject. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. You must be someone’s… _other._ Yet nobody lives in apartment A, on the other side of the door. What’s happened to the… the other you?”

Harry took his time to reply. He looked down at the tiny space between their bodies, on the wooden bench, where the white paint was peeling off. A summer breeze blew gently across his face, and between the silky, curly strands of his hair. “I’ve no idea. I wonder about him, sometimes. I think he must have been some kind of failed, obnoxious, self-loathing actor who ended up killing himself. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Is that how you picture him?”

“Most of the time, yes. How about you? How would you imagine the other you?”

“I don’t have another me,” he pointed out.

“Hypothetically.”

“Well… He’d be happy I think. A little less naive. A bit less of a dreamer. More mature.”

“It’s good to be a dreamer, though,” he noted, lovingly.

“I think it’s very fitting. I always feel like I’m dreaming when I walk through that door. I still can’t fully believe it.”

They swayed silently for a few seconds as the singing of birds and cicadas filled the moment. They could hear Hester and Oliver’s faint laughter from afar; she’d just pushed him into the great marble fountain. He was soaked from head to toe.

“I’m in a mood for tea,” Harry said. “I’m going back in. Would you like to come over?”

“… Sure. That’d be lovely.”

For the first time ever, Louis set foot inside of Apartment A. It looked just like his, with two floors, a dozen doors, and dark, wooden floorboards. The place was a little dark, but it was decorated with taste - something that a boy of his age, who lived alone, would usually lack. As soon as he entered, Louis noted several framed posters on the walls. They were theatre programmes, just like in his other father’s study. Harry was depicted in the paintings, alongside other actresses and actors. The theatre seemed to be an integral part of his life - the curtain that separated the living room from the hallway wasn’t unlike the one they used on stage. It was made of red velvet, and held open with a golden rope. His furniture - all of his belongings, really - was elegant and all seemed to be quite expensive. Velvet, real leather, solid and glossy wood, porcelain and crystal crockery, neatly arranged in a massive china cabinet, and gigantic handmade carpets.

He loved beautiful things.

He also had a very hefty collection of books - more than Louis could count.

Harry went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Louis remained in the hallway, watching him. “Doesn't it get lonely?”

“Sometimes.” His answer was curt and simple; he did not want to elaborate. With his back turned to Louis, he turned on the stove and got the tea bags out of a cupboard.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Louis asked as he felt a sudden urge to go.

“Down the hall, last door to your left.”

He thanked him quietly, and then went on his way. His feet trod down the hallway; a red and gold carpet adorned the floor. There were more posters hanging on either side of the wall. Distracted by all of these plays he had not yet seen and that looked very promising, he reached the end and stopped in front of the last door. He was just about to turn the handle when Harry’s voice reached him,

“Your _left_ , dearest..”

Louis stopped in his tracks. He was indeed just about to open the door to his right.

How did he know he was going to go through the wrong door?

He hadn’t even left the kitchen this whole time.

He decided not to make anything of it.

*

The living room was as cozy as they came, and ravishing at the same time. The tea was served in porcelain cups, and an assortment of biscuits was laid out meticulously on a long plate- and everything had been placed upon the glass surface of a coffee table, as they sat on a long, graceful-looking red-velvet sofa.

“Good?”

Louis waited until he’d finished his first sip of tea to nod in agreement. “Have you read all those books?” he pointed towards the bookshelf, which practically covered an entire wall.

“Yes, all of them. I’ve lots of free time. When I’m not on stage, I’m either tending to the garden or reading. Or rehearsing lines.”

“Could I find any of these books in my own world?”

“I don’t believe you could. I shall lend you one, if you’re interested.”

“I’ll bring you one too, then, as none of you seem to have heard about our books. The other Alex didn’t know about Alice in Wonderland.”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Like I said. You’re missing out, the lot of you.”

Harry chuckled softly, bringing his cup to his lips. “Sounds like you’ve got some funny stories in your world…. Would you mind telling me more?”

“About my world?”

“It’s just that I’ve heard so little about it. I’ve never been through that door.”

“Am I the first who’s ever crossed over?”

“The first one I’ve talked to, yes. So?”

Louis took his time and thought long and hard about it. He wondered where to start, what he must include, what he mustn’t omit, so that a complete outsider could get a clear idea of what it was like. “Well,” he began, carefully. “My world is just like yours, except worse.”

“I figured.”

“You can fall ill. From what I’ve gathered, it doesn’t happen here. Over there, sickness can take your life. People are just… People are awful, most of the time.”

He spotted Harry’s little smirk - but kept going.

“Some men enslave other men. Women are seen as inferior to men… Unless it’s the same here?”

“It’s not. That sounds horrific.”

“A big part of the world is dirt poor. They live in misery while the rich get richer and greedier. Countries go to war - rather, governments do, and their people suffer. My father fought in the Great War. When he came back he was traumatized. He hides it well - but we can tell he’ll never be the man he used to be.”

Meanwhile, Harry had put his cup down. He was listening attentively, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “The Great War?”

“Has there ever been a war here? Or anywhere?”

“Of course not… Won’t you tell me about it?”

And he did.

Louis told him all about war, its ravages, its deaths, its bloody battles, its traumas and legacies. He recounted briefly all the wars that mankind had known and suffered through. He told him about the Crusades, the murderous conquests, wars that lasted for decades.

When he exhausted the extent of his knowledge of the worst horrors humanity had ever experienced, he realized Harry’s eyes were wet, the dim light of the room reflecting itself in them. He gathered he’d been too abrupt with it all. It was too much horror in too short a time, for someone who was living in what was essentially heaven on Earth.

“What do you get out of hurting each other so?” he whispered, in disbelief.

“I wish I knew.”

He felt awful. He never meant to make him sad, he’d just become so insensitive was the thing. War was, for lack of a better word, normal. He knew it. He always did. And he’d never stopped and tried to understand why. It was just the way it was- people hurt each other, they just did.

He felt it was his duty to reassure him, to prove to him that even in the darkest moments, one could find a glimmer of hope. So he told him a story that his father had recounted to the family. To this day it has remained for him one of the most beautiful proofs of humanity. The Christmas Truce, 1914.

In the early hours of the morning, Belgian, British and French soldiers were standing in the trenches, exhausted from all the losses they had suffered since August, when they’d heard a Christmas carol coming from the enemy positions. They’d also discovered that Christmas trees, candles and lanterns had been placed along the German trenches. In a completely unexpected turn of events, the German soldiers had come out of their trenches and advanced into the middle of no-man's-land, calling out to the British and others to join them. Armed with white flags, both sides had found themselves in the middle of the shell-ravaged terrain. Then the unthinkable had happened: the men had shaken hands, drank and sang Christmas carols together, exchanged tobacco, cigarettes, and even uniform buttons, talked and played football. The truce had spread out for several weeks, until the military authorities had put a stop to it. He knew all this, because his father had been among them.

When he finished talking, tears were beading at the corners of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. Except now he didn’t appear so distressed, in fact he was appeased now, and he had a faint, tender smile.

“That’s beautiful… Could you… Could you sing the song for me?”

“The Christmas carol? It's in German.”

“Please?”

“Fine. I’ll try.”

His father knew it by heart. He tried to recall the words, and started singing in a low, unsure voice, _“Stille Nacht… Heilige Nacht… Alles schläft…Einsam wacht…”_

He had Harry’s complete and undivided attention. Suddenly, the record player turned on by itself and started playing the melody, as well as the voice of a woman singing Stille Nacht’s lyrics with him.

“That’s a beautiful song,” said Harry. “I loved that story. Maybe deep down, your world isn’t entirely bad.”

“I hope they’ve learned their lesson. Ever since the armistice, there’s this saying going around. They say it was the last one. The war to end all wars.”

“I hope so, as well. If there should ever be another one, it _would_ be a little embarrassing, wouldn’t it?”

He’d said that with a grin. Barely perceptible. Scarcely decipherable. An expression, that if Louis had been able to interpret it, implied that Harry knew something he didn’t.

“Say, does this record player of yours have a mind of its own? How did it just start playing the song? May I have a look?”

“Sure.”

As soon as Louis got to his feet and made his way towards the little machine, Harry found himself alone on the sofa. His face dropped at once. His smile vanished as he turned cold and expressionless, and with an almost disdainful movement of the hand, he wiped away the tears that hadn’t fallen. The change in his mood had been so sudden that if Louis had seen it, he would’ve found it deeply unsettling. It was as if he’d never been crying. As if he’d never been smiling.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go and lie down,” said Harry. “I’ve a busy night at the theatre. Would you like to come and see me?”

“I’d love to,” he said, giving up on trying to understand the mechanisms of Harry’s _magical_ record player. “I’ll let you get some rest. Thank you for the tea.”

“Anytime.”

Before letting him go, Harry led him to the bookshelf. Louis waited patiently as he made his choice from what seemed like hundreds of books. He selected one at last. “Here,” he said, handing it to him. “It’s one of my favourites.”

“Thank you. I’ll bring you one next time.”

“Don’t you forget,” he teased. “I’m bored out of my mind, here.”

He accompanied him to the door and watched as Louis walked past the other Mr. Walker, accordion in hand. The old man was sitting on his side of the porch and tipped his hat for Louis. As soon as he disappeared from his field of vision, the man stopped playing.

Harry, who was still standing right there, cleared his throat. The other Mr. Walker flinched and turned his head to him.

The boy did not say a word. Instead, he simply began to play an imaginary accordion, in a silent way of inciting him to pick it up. His fingers strummed the air, as if they were playing a tiny piano, and his eyes were insistent - Mr. Walker complied without fuss.

Harry got back inside and shut the door softly, straight-faced and cold as ever. He paced down his own hallway with a slow, steady gait, holding himself tall and proud, with his hands behind his back. He stopped in front of the door that Louis had almost opened by accident, and looked at it fixedly, deep in thought.

He, for one, knew very well what was hidden inside.

He got to work and installed a lock that could only be opened with a key. Then, he hid the key in a tiny crystal vase on top of the hearth.

*

“The neighbour’s invited me to see a play tonight,” Louis announced that same evening, as he was having dinner with his other family. “He’s the main actor.”

His other parents exchanged a complicit look.

“I see you’ve met Harry, then,” his other mother said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Good for you. He’s a charming young man. That should take your mind off of _him_.”

“Very talented, too,” added his other father. “His name keeps turning up among the critics. Next thing you know, he’ll be Broadway-bound. I like him.”

Louis just nodded. He was talented indeed. And handsome. And lots of other things too, but he won’t say it out loud, and so he just finished his plate eagerly. They’d cooked his favourite meal.

“Don’t go.”

The entire family turned to little Maggie. She’d said it softly and cautiously, like a secret, but everyone had heard it. Louis frowned.

“Why not?”

“Because…” She paused as she noted the weight of her parents’ eyes on her. They threatened her silently, making an inaudible promise that she would certainly regret whatever she was about to say. “Because, well, Rose and I are bored. We’d like you to stay with us tonight. Please.”

Hester chimed in, reassuringly, “I’ll play with you. We’ll all play together, won’t we?”

The parents nodded feverishly, “We’ll play with you all night’. said their father. “Under one condition. You leave Louis alone. He’s got a life to live.”

Louis forced a smile for them and tried to appear grateful. There was no doubt that this world seemed to revolve around him, most of the time. He would not complain - he liked being special - but it was no less disturbing.

When he got to the theatre, the clerk let him in without even asking to see his ticket. He beckoned a valet over, and prompted him with the task of walking Louis to his seat, in one of the side balconies. Before leaving him, and before he’d even had the chance to question his special treatment, the valet told him that it was all at the demand of the main actor.

“You’re very dear to him, it seems. He wanted you to have the best night possible. And his wish is his command.”

Soon, he came to find he would be alone in the balcony. Not that he’d complain. Before the play began, he spotted Harry in the far back, right behind one side of the curtain. He was standing alone, already dressed in his costume, and he was looking up, straight at him. Harry waved at him, long, slender fingers fluttering gently and slowly, like a tired butterfly. Louis waved back, though he wasn’t sure Harry could see him that well.

It was midnight on his watch when the play ended. The realization brought him back to Earth in a shattering away. He’d never gone missing an entire day, his parents must be worried sick. There was the final bow, and the crowd’s applause was so loud and booming that it seemed to be roaring. Louis practically rushed backstage. He jostled a few people on his way and did not even bother to apologize. He reached Harry’s dressing room, whose door had been left ajar. He was there already, shrugging off his jacket.

“Good evening,” he said, with his back still turned to him. “I do hope you enjoyed it.”

“I did. Tremendously. But I’ve got to-”

“In half an hour, I’ll be back on stage for my favourite play of the night. The story’s very dear to my heart.”

“Oh, Harry. I’m sure it’ll be grand, but it’s getting late and I should really go home. I promise I’ll be back when-”

“You know,” he cut him again, while undoing the buttons of his white shirt. “I feel I always do better when I know you’re in the crowd. I think you must be my lucky charm.”

Louis softened at the words. He tried not to let his eyes wander on his body as his shirt dropped to the floor. He ventured near his closet, and Louis couldn’t help but notice the scar from the corner of his eye.

“I’d love to stay and see your play,” said Louis, warily. “But I’ve got a family on the other side. They wouldn’t understand. Even if I tried to explain. They’d send me to the madhouse.”

“Mm.” With his back to him, still, Harry searched through the hangers where his shirts, jackets, jumpers, dresses and coats were neatly hung. “You’ve got a family here, as well.”

“I do,” he admitted.

“Then why don’t you stay? If you had a choice to make, why choose to stay in a world as terrible as the one you’ve told me about?”

As he said this, he decided on a new all-black shirt, made of a light, slightly sheer fabric. He slid his arms into the sleeves and fastened the little buttons from the bottom up as he slowly walked up to Louis, almost like a predator would. He held his gaze, and Louis gulped. He found him so terribly attractive, no matter what he wore, or did. He let his eyes run across his body, allowing himself to admire him. And from the looks of it, and from the state of pure bliss he seemed to find himself in at the end of a play, Harry _loved_ to be admired. He knew he had the power to sweep anyone off their feet, and he knew, most of all, that all he had to do, was to exist.

“I have to go,” Louis repeated, softly.

They were impossibly close now. Harry allowed himself a quick glance to his lips, and Louis blushed.

“Come back soon, will you,” he whispered, and with a delicate gesture, he readjusted Louis’ collar. “With a book, if you please.”

“With a book. I will. Promise.”

*

When he came back home, he expected a storm, and he was served nothing less than that. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, but he hadn’t even reached his door when Hester barged out of hers, came to grab him by the arm and dragged him into her room. He could see that she was not only fuming, but that she’d been crying too. “Where have you been?”

“I was in town,” he lied.

“I was worried sick!” she cried. “I’ve looked for you all day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you ever do that again.”

“But why are you crying?”

It was odd, indeed. Her behaviour was rather unusual. He hadn’t expected her of all people to get all worked up for him, and so he concluded that something else must be bothering her. He was right. She didn’t respond. Instead, new tears pooled in her blue eyes. She crossed her arms and looked away. “Mother’s ill. Seriously ill. I’ve spent the day at her side, taking care of her and the girls… all day long. And you and father weren’t there. What are you even good for? I always have to do everything in this house… Don’t you care? … You know what. I cannot wait for you to leave at the end of the summer. I never want to see you again.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Try me. Get out of my room.”


	6. Chapter 6

Before he went to sleep that night, curled up in his own bed, Louis recalled there was a book that Harry had handed to him. It was small, but rather thick, with a sturdy, burgundy cover, of the expensive kind, surely. The side of the pages was painted gold. It was hard to believe that he was holding an object from another world in his hands. And perhaps it was for a reason, for as soon as he opened the book, he found all the pages blank. At least four hundred immaculate pages. He presumed the illusion - _or whatever it was that made the other world go round-_ had worn off when he’d crossed back over to his own world. Perhaps the same would happen if one of them tried to follow him here.

He sighed and set it down on his bedside table.

The next day, he remembered his promise, and made for his own stash of books to pick one out for Harry. He chose one of the most recent works of Agatha Christie, the Mysterious Affair at Styles. He hoped he would be pleased - he’d been tormenting his thoughts for a few days and, he must admit, now he was starting to haunt his nights. His so-called curiosity was wavering dangerously on obsession. He yearned for someone to talk to about all this. But if he ever so much as uttered a word about what he’d experienced, they’d think he’d gone mad.

It happened at breakfast, as he was still stuffing his mouth full of porridge. His mother erupted in a coughing fit from across the table. Hester looked up from her plate, eyes wide with worry. She coughed, louder and harder into a pocket handkerchief, and then examined the extent of the damage. Small, bright blood stains were slowly soaking the white cloth.

Louis didn’t react immediately.

In the midst of all the chaos that his mother’s new symptoms stirred, he made his decision. Up against his thigh, through the fabric of his trousers, he felt the increasingly strong presence of the key at the bottom of his pocket. He got to his feet and slipped away from the dining room. With the book in one hand, the key in the other, he dashed off to the drawing room and opened the door, shooting off one last tear-filled glance behind his shoulders before setting off through the corridor.

When he entered the other world, his other mother was there, waiting for him by the door. She knew.

She welcomed him with open arms, and he ran straight into them. She hugged him tightly, holding him as his real mother would. He held back tears as she whispered to him in the same, soft voice he’d known all his life, “I’m here, darling. You’re all right. You’re safe here. It’ll all be fine.”

Over her shoulder, and through his blurry eyes, he saw his older sister sitting at the piano. She looked over at him and said, “You’re home, now. Nothing bad can happen to you.”

As she said those words, his other mother gently sneaked her hand into his pocket and retrieved the key, as stealthily as possible. He hadn’t noticed. They pulled apart after a while as he wiped his own tears with the back of his sleeve.

“I see you’ve brought a book with you,” she pointed out while slipping the key in the front pocket of her apron.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s for the neighbour.”

“How kind of you… Why don’t you come with me to the kitchen. I’ve baked your favourite cake.”

*

Later that day, he was sunbathing alone on the swing-chair, lying down on the bench with his eyes glued to the sky, as the warm July breeze gently blew. From where he was, he could smell the faint smell of roses. He could hear the birds, the wind whistling through the foliage of the tall fruit trees, the cicadas, somewhere in the tall grass. The bench swayed from side to side as he guided its movements, one foot on the ground.

In the distance, by the swings, the twins’ giggles and screams could be heard. It was a beautiful day - not much to his surprise.

A single thought crept up his mind. Why should he ever go back home, now? As time passed, it was getting tougher to come up with a solid answer. And then, he started to piece things together. He thought back to Victor Myers, and then Jane Walker, who’d both disappeared suddenly, and had both last been seen around the house. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t believe it’d slipped right past him. They’d likely stumbled upon the door to this world. They must’ve found a better life here, and had decided not to go back. It made sense - perfect sense, even. He wondered where they were now, what they’d turned out to be, and whether it had ever crossed their minds to return home.

As he was still wondering about them, a silhouette approached the bench, blocking out the sun. He turned his head towards the newcomer. Harry was standing there, just taking off his gardening gloves. He was wearing a bulky cream cable-knit top, even though it was quite warm outside. His long legs were dressed in black trousers that seemed to be a little tight for him.

“Beautiful day,” he said, a warm smile sketching itself on his lips.

Louis sat up to make room for him. Harry set his gloves down on the bench and took a seat beside him. He instantly noticed that something was wrong.

“What’s the matter?”

As he didn’t seem to want to explain, Harry took the hint. He simply shifted closer and put his hand over his, stroking his skin with his thumb ever so gently.

“Styles. That’s me.”

“What?”

“The book,” he nodded towards the book lying on the bench - the one Louis had brought him.

“Oh.” Louis picked it up and handed it to him. “Here.”

“That’s my name.”

“Harry Styles?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a nice name.”

“You think so? I can’t wait to read it.”

“Yours was blank.”

“How come?”

“The pages. They were blank.”

“Pity. It was a truly wonderful story.”

Without another word, Louis put his head against Harry’s shoulder. He felt strangely comfortable around him. He trusted him more than anybody here. Some sort of incandescent familiarity emanated from him, and it burned so brightly it could not be ignored. He was warm and comforting. Like a fire in the midst of the harshest winter.

It made no sense that he was so lonely. Surely someone like him should have been surrounded by love, admirers and like-minded individuals.

Louis was very fond of him - and there was no point in hiding it anymore. And as he felt Harry’s thumb stroking his skin, he wondered if it could ever be requited in the slightest.

“Do the names… Victor Myers and Jane Walker sound familiar to you?” Louis asked, with no ulterior motive whatsoever. He was simply curious. If Harry had been here his whole life, he was sure he must’ve had some idea.

“Not at all. Who would they be?”

“They lived in Rosewood Hall, in my world. And they’ve both been missing for years.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“I assumed they must’ve found the door to this world. And… probably enjoyed it so much they decided never to go back. I just wish I knew what’s become of them.”

It was a while before Harry replied. “I’ve never heard of them. Were you considering staying, then?”

Louis looked up at him and met his eyes - his were ever so tender. “Maybe.”

Harry’s smile warmed his heart.

Meanwhile, on the twins’ side, Maggie had hopped off her swing and she was now leaning against the fountain. She’d been watching them closely for the past few minutes while her sister kept on swinging happily.

“I’d like to go to the beach,” said Louis. “There’s this beach I’ve been to, in my world. I’m sure it must exist here as well. And I know it must be even more beautiful.”

Harry squeezed his hand into his. “I shall take you… If you’d like.”

“It’s pretty far away, as I recall.”

“I have a car.”

“A car?” he echoed, wide-eyed with surprise.

“Yes. We’ll leave right now, if it can lift your spirits a little.”

Already feeling a tad bit better, and eager to explore this world beyond the surroundings of the house and Upper Redley, Louis thanked him profusely for offering. And as they prepared to leave together, little Maggie came running towards them, closely followed by her sister. “Louis, don’t go!” she screamed. “Please, don’t go.”

“I’ll be back tonight, Maggie. You’ve nothing to worry about. Harry’s a friend.”

Rose pulled her gently by the sleeve of her dress, as if to try to get her to step back.

“You don’t understand!” she protested. “I’m telling you not to go with him, I mean it. Go back home. Please.”

“We’re only going to the beach, love,” Harry intervened in a wonderfully soft and soothing voice. “Do you want us to bring you something back?”

“Don’t talk to me!” she yelled out.

“Maggie,” Louis scolded. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t be rude. Apologize to him.”

“No,” she stood her ground. “You’ll regret this, Louis.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Harry whispered to him. “Shall we go, then? My car is parked a bit further down the road. Go. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Though he was still reluctant - and mostly confused - Louis did as he was told. As soon as his back was turned, and Harry deemed he was far enough, he turned to little Maggie who was still standing there, straight and defiant with her arms crossed over her chest. Her sister was now hiding behind a bush and watching the scene from a distance, too scared to intervene.

“Now,” said Harry, low and a bit threatening. “Less of the cheek, Margaret. You should learn to be quiet. You know what happens to people who run their mouth, you’ve seen it before, have you not?”

She said nothing, still holding his gaze, though deep down she was paralyzed to the bone. Her blue eyes misted up with tears as she tried to keep a straight face.

Harry started to leave, but then he stopped to turn around one last time. With his two pointer fingers, he traced a smile on his own face, as though he were lifting the corners of his lips, inviting her to do the same.

And she did. She produced the faintest smile she could, and still it wasn’t enough for him.

“Bigger,” he whispered, drily. “Good.”

*

On the road, Louis guided him around purely by memory. Their worldswere rather similar in geography, and so he seemed to know his way around.

“What does this beach look like?” asked Harry.

“The sand was very fine, and soft to the touch. Before you get to the actual beach, I remember there was tall grass, higher up… The sea was calm, most of the time, even though the wind could be quite strong, especially in autumn. There was a dock, somewhere. And a pub on the side of the road, where the dockers would meet up for a meal and a pint after work.”

Harry nodded distractedly, on hand on the steering wheel, his other arm laid out against the open window on his side. “Were there usually lots of people?”

“Not really. ’S why I liked it so much. ”

The wind was rushing inside the vehicle, blowing through Harry’s hair. Louis watched him from the corner of his eye, lost in his thoughts. He was so frighteningly beautiful, it was unsettling. Harry caught him ogling him and confronted him with an irritating smirk, “Is something wrong?”

Louis looked away at once. “No.”

He settled for watching the landscape through the window as he felt his cheeks burning up.

The car slowed down once they reached the shore. Louis warned him about the slope they’d have to climb before reaching the beach. He crossed the distance from the ground to the top of the tiny hill in no time at all, and then trampled through the thick, lush grasses, which waved in the breezes and the balmy wafts of the wind. He reached the edge, where the wind blew the strongest, and where he had a breathtaking view of nearly the entire coast. It was deserted, just as he remembered it.

This short moment of bliss was cut short when he noticed that Harry was struggling a bit. He was striving to climb the hill; it was not particularly steep yet he seemed to be out of breath. In fact he paused in the middle to catch his breath.

“Are you all right? Need help?”

“I’m fine,” he assured him.

“I’ll help you up.”

He held out his arm and pulled him up. When they reached the top, Harry sat down in the grass. Though his face was pale, he assured Louis it was nothing serious, that he wasn’t very athletic at all, and that he’d get over it soon enough.

He stretched his legs out before him, holding himself upright as his hands supported his weight, fingers weaving through the green blades of grass. The weather had become a little overcast; the seagulls were flying low, and their cries could be heard all around.

“It’s just like I remember,” said Louis. “I’ve been there with my boyfriend at the time, we… We’ve made love in the sand.”

Harry looked up at him, mildly amused. “I’m not saying it’s not romantic - it is. But the sand, God.”

“It was just as terrible as it sounds. But back then we couldn’t care less.”

“I can imagine.”

Louis plopped down next to him, looking around in awe. He couldn’t get enough of the view. However, something crucial was missing. “The lighthouse,” he said. “There used to be a lighthouse. It was painted red and white. We used to run all the way to the top.”

“A lighthouse. You’ve not mentioned a lighthouse.” When he said those words, it strangely sounded like he was reprimanding him- which made no sense.

“It must’ve slipped my mind, then. But… Yes. There used to be a lighthouse.”

Harry let out a long sigh, and lay down in the middle of the grass. He closed his eyes.

“What’s wrong? Have I said something w-”

“Nothing. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“It’s not your fault there’s no lighthouse, though, is it? Perhaps they don’t need one. Why are you blaming yourself?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he mumbled.

Louis laid down next to him, propping himself up on his elbow. “I could try,” he whispered in a light tone. “Could it be… that all of this… is just a figment of your imagination?”

He’d said it as a joke, but when he saw Harry’s lips stretching into a tiny smile, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

“What do you think?” he prompted him.

“I don’t know.”

“What if it was?”

“I’d be flattered. But it can’t be. Shall we head to the beach, then?”

Harry gladly accepted.

They took a stroll along the shore; there wasn’t a soul except for them and a few birds. Louis had taken his shoes off and was holding them in his hand, so he could feel the sand between his toes.

“Have you ever been in love, Harry?”

“Yes. Twice.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There’s not much to say. There was this girl, once. She was very dear to me, but I don’t think she felt the same way about me. Then, there was a boy, not long after. I did love him. I truly did. I must’ve scared him off - I loved him so much. He hurt me like no one else ever did. I should’ve seen it coming. It must be hard to love when you don’t have a heart.”

“Does that mean you _have_ one?”

“Of course not. Still, I’m trying. I’d like to find out what real love is. It’d be comforting to know that the love I’ve read about in the books and that I’ve acted out on stage is real. You’re lucky. You’ve known true love, haven’t you?”

“I think I have.”

“How do you know when it’s real?”

“You just do. I could’ve given up my life for him.”

Harry looked at him from the corner of his eye as they continued their little stroll.

“Would you have given him your heart?”

“I already did. So to speak. But yes, I would’ve. If he’d needed it, I’d have given it to him.”

“A true lover you are, then. Just like in the books.”

“Well… Wouldn’t you be willing to do anything for the person you love?”

“I would,” he replied truthfully. “Of course, I would.”

*

They got back to the house by nightfall. They’d spent the day at the beach - Louis had explored every nook and cranny of what was now his favourite place in the world. Now they were out together on the back porch, the one facing the garden, side by side on an old bench, under the pale light of an overhead lamp, a dozen moths clustered in its beam.

“Look,” said Harry. “The garden.”

The flowers were lighting up one by one, softly glowing in the dark. Roses in red, violets in blue, daffodils in yellow and daisies in white. The trees gave off a soft green light - it all looked so unreal, it was the stuff of dreams.

The night sky had never been so clear; pitch black and sprinkled with thousands upon thousands of stars.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

Louis just nodded, too amazed to speak. And just like earlier, he rested his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Aren’t you performing at the theatre tonight?”

“No. I’ve taken the day off. I wanted to spend time with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.”

“… I like you too.”

Impossibly close, they looked up at each other. At both of their surprise, it was Louis who went first. He pressed his lips against Harry’s, tentative and cautious, revelling in the softness of them, before he pulled apart. Before he knew it, Harry was kissing him back, soft, but eager nonetheless.

It wasn’t the first night Louis had spent in the other world. He’d fallen asleep there a few weeks ago, in the arms of the boy he thought he could love. Only, back then, he’d woken up in his own room, as if someone had tried to convince him it was all just a dream.

That night, though, he wouldn’t go back.

He ended up in Harry’s room - it was spacious and soberly decorated, with a huge four-poster bed in the middle. They made love in the dark, slow and sweet. Harry was caring and careful, and ever so loving and patient. Louis wanted him so bad he was burning with tenderness for him. And when he fell asleep, fulfilled and dizzy in a good way, Harry stayed awake.

Bodies intertwined, skin to skin, bathing in the heat and the sweat, he had his ear pressed against Louis’ chest, and he was,

listening.

He listened, staring into nothingness as he felt the weight of Louis’ arm around his back.

He listened, quiet as ever, to the constant thud of his heart, beating against his ear. He still had his hand buried in Louis’, fingers linked.

He listened, and smiled. A hellish grin; of those who bore the illest intentions.

The garden lights turned off, one by one. The moon emerged from behind a cloud. Its light penetrated the room, casting its glow on their pale skin, highlighting the demented smile of the one who was not asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

A few days had gone by since Louis had entered the other world, never to return. Truth be told, he was enjoying it a tad too much. He was treated like a king, he was cared for day and night, the food was divine and plentiful, and the weather was simply brilliant. And now, he had Harry by his side - the neighbour he’d fallen quickly but madly in love with in a matter of days. They spent most of their time together. Louis would help him rehearse his lines, and he would always have the best seats to watch him nearly every night. They went on dates in the center town, and he spent his entire nights by his side. He’d grown infatuated with him to the point of it being on the brink of obsession.

Naturally, his other parents approved of them. They’d even invited Harry over to dinner one night. What an honour, had said his other father, to have one of the greatest actors in the region at their table. And Louis, blinded by his fascination, didn’t question anything. He had eyes for him, and him only.

Sometimes, he would wonder about the world he’d left behind. Whether they were looking for him. Whether they’d even noticed at all. He worried about his mother; he thought about her at night, mostly.

One particularly sunny morning, he heard from his other mother that it was Mr. Walker’s birthday. As he was in a good mood, he decided to fetch the rest of the cake they’d had for dessert the previous night. They’d only had one slice and it would be a pity if it went to waste. He would bring it over to Mr. Walker’s.

He walked out, cake in hand, and found him sitting on his rocking chair, up on the porch. He still had his accordion in hand.

Louis didn’t immediately spot Harry, further out in the garden, busy pulling some weeds out by hand.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Walker.”

The old man beamed at him, deeply moved. He stopped playing the instrument, which instantly attracted Harry’s attention. He looked up at them from afar, squinting at the bright sun.

“Thank you,” he said. “Would you like to come in?”

“Sure!”

Before Harry had any time to react, the man opened his door and they both disappeared inside.

“Where should I put the cake?”

Mr. Walker ignored him. His mood had drastically changed; he was no longer smiling. In fact, he didn’t show much of anything. He got rid of his accordion, locked the door well, shut the windows, and pulled the curtains, plunging the flat into darkness. He turned on the lights after making sure that everything that _could_ be locked _was_ locked.

“Is… Is everything all right”? Louis asked, frankly at a loss. Something was bothering the man, and he looked just frantic.

“Yes. Yes. You may put the cake down on that table, over… over there.”

And Louis did just that. “How old are you now, if I may ask?”

“I don’t know.”

Was he senile in this world as well? How odd, he thought. Everything was supposed to be perfect.

Mr. Walker went to sit down in his old chair, and beckoned Louis over, pointing at the seat next to him.

“Do you live alone, then? Your son… Albert, if I recall correctly, is he-”

“It’s not real,” he blurted out, like the words had been burning his tongue and he’d thrown them out in an attempt to relieve his mouth.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Listen to me. I haven’t got much time, and I’m putting my life on the line, here. Go home, and don’t come back. There’s only one key. If you’ve got it with you, make sure you lock the door, and no matter what you do, don’t open it again.”

“Nonsense. Why would I want to go home? I love it here. My mother’s healthy, my family’s brilliant and… And I’ve got Harry. I love him. And… He loves me too.” When he uttered those last words, it had sounded like he was having doubts, almost as if he’d actually asked a question.

“Can’t you see?” he whispered, his eyes wild and a bit frightening. “He loves you like a miser loves money. He _needs_ you.”

“And what about it? I need him too.”

Before he could object, there were three loud knocks at the door. None of them moved. Three other knocks, this time, far louder than the first. Harry’s cheerful voice reached their ears soon enough, “Open up, Ernie! I’ve just come to wish you a happy birthday. You must’ve forgotten… Today’s your day, old man!”

“Don't... open the door,” he whispered to Louis.

Louis, of course, did nothing of it. He opened the door and found himself face to face with him. He had a bright, dazzling smile.

“Hello,” he said, leaning over to kiss Louis on the cheek. “What were you doing here?”

“I came to wish him a happy birthday. And I’ve brought him some cake, too.”

“How nice of you. May I come in?”

Louis held off for a moment. Obviously, Mr. Walker wasn’t very fond of Harry. It wouldn’t be right to let him in. But then, from behind his back, Harry produced a gift box. It had a gold ribbon on the lid. “I hope he’ll like it.”

“I’ll give it to him, if you’d like.”

“No. I’d like it to do it myself…. Would it bother you terribly to go and turn off the hose? I think I might’ve left it on.”

He did not wait for his answer, and made his way through the vestibule and towards the living room. Louis had hardly taken a step outside when the door slammed shut by itself behind him.

Meanwhile, the other Mr. Walker hadn’t moved from his chair. He held himself upright and stern - Harry’s arrival hadn’t stirred him in the least bit. Or at least, it was the feeling he hoped to give off. He watched as he approached and stared the boy down from head to toe, until he was standing right in front of him. Harry leaned over and said to him, low but resolute, “How brave of you, old man.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“Let the boy go. You’ve done enough harm to this world.”

“Such contempt… I’ve only come to bring you a present, Mr. Walker. Shall we open it at the count of three? Yes? One…”

“You can keep it.”

“Two,” he hummed as he stepped closer, slowly opening the lid. “Three…” He showed the man the contents of the box “What do we think?”

The man finally broke eye contact long enough to take a look at the inside of the box. A spool of thread, and a tiny needle.

“Happy birthday, you foolish, foolish man.”

*

“Happy birthday, girls!”

Maggie and Rose leaned over the table to blow out their candles. The guests clapped and cheered. It was the next day: the twins’ birthday. Louis thought it was a funny coincidence. The entire family was present, and his other parents had even gone to the trouble of inviting Harry, who had been offered a seat at the very end of the table. A very curious thing to do, as this seat was usually reserved for the head of the house; one would only sit there if they were considered important and worthy of respect. But no one questioned this particular decision.

Between two spoonfuls of cake, he and Louis looked at each other discreetly. Harry’s eyes were always tender, always so filled with an affection he reserved only for him. He’d brought presents for the littles ones. Maggie had accepted hers without even looking him in the eye, mumbling a faint “thank you” to him before scampering off into the drawing room to join the rest of the family. Hester was playing a cheery, happy tune on the piano while the twins played with their new toys.

With his mouth still full of cake, and a plate with another slice in his hand, Louis stepped into the room in his turn. The portrait of the lady with the flowers had never looked so bright and colourful. She seemed to be celebrating with them. Her children were kneeling by her feet, staring longingly at the twins and perhaps wishing they had something to play with as well.

Louis set his plate down on the coffee table and took a seat next to Harry, on the big sofa. He felt his arm wrap around his shoulder, holding him even closer, and a kiss was pressed on his cheek. He’d never felt so whole in his life.

His other parents were sitting across from them.

“Darling,” said his other mother. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes.”

Harry took his hands, and their fingers intertwined.

“You really like it here, don’t you?”

“Mh-hm.”

“How would you like to stay here forever?”

He turned his head to Harry. He gave him an encouraging nod, urging him to accept. As a matter of fact, Louis had already given it some thought.

“You could, if you wanted to,” she added, crossing her legs. “All you have to do is say yes, and we’ll lock that door once and for all.”

It all sounded so bitterly decisive and irrevocable. Once he accepted, there would be no turning back. His other mother tilted her head, prodding for an answer. Little Maggie was combing her new doll’s hair by the fireplace, and she stole a quick glance over at him. She no longer dared to meddle in the matter, but she remained alert all the same.

“If I stayed. Could I still go to school come September? I was supposed to go to London.”

“You can do whatever you want, my love. Ask, and you shall receive. There is nothing we can deny you.”

“That does sound nice. I’d like to stay.”

“We’d like that, too,” said his other father. “We love you so much. And we’ve waited so long for you. You’d make us the happiest parents in the world.”

Harry squeezed his hand in his, and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Forever and always.”

“Although… There’s one, _tiny_ little detail,” said the other mother, “that we must sort out first.”

“What is it?”

“Why don’t we let Harry explain? I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

Puzzled, Louis turned to him for explanations. And in his eyes, he read nothing else than that pure tenderness he’d grown used to. “Don’t you worry. It’s nothing. Just a formality. Come over, and we shall talk about it.”

“May I?” Louis asked permission to his other parents.

“But of course, darling. I trust he’ll tell you everything you need to know. You have a wonderful evening. We'll see you in the morning.”

When they left, it was pitch black outside. The porch was deserted; Mr. Walker was gone. Had been for a while now.

Harry’s place had practically become a second home to him in the past few days. He knew his way around and he felt more at ease than anywhere else.

They settled in his living room, on his red velvet sofa.

“So?” Louis prompted him.

Harry took his hand once again, holding his gaze. “I’m sure by now you must have noticed we haven’t got hearts. None of us. Except you, of course.”

Though he kept quiet, Louis was starting to see what he was hinting at.

“If you want to stay here forever… If you want to be just like us, you must…”

“No,” he said firmly, retrieving his hand from his grip. “Harry, this is insane.”

“Oh, but we need a yes,” he insisted, taking Louis’ hand back, “Otherwise it simply won’t work out. You cannot keep it. I know the scar isn’t pretty, but you’ll feel much better once we-”

“No,” he repeated, standing up from his seat. “You won’t take my heart. I’d _die_.”

“You wouldn’t,” Harry objected. “You can’t. We don’t die, here.”

“I’m not from your world."

“You will be, once we’ve t-”

“No.” His answer was firm and decisive. He took his hand back for good, and stood in the middle of the living room, crossing his arms.

Harry frowned in confusion. His refusal had noticeably upset him to the point where he seemed to be on the verge of tears. “No?”

“No. Actually… I don’t think I want to be here anymore. None of you will take my heart. I’m going home.”

And on those words, he spun around and headed for the front door. Harry didn’t even bother to follow him. He just sat there, in dismay.

Louis turned the knob; it was locked from the inside.

He pulled, pushed, turned it, put all of his weight on it - all in vain. “Why’d you lock it?… Where’s the key? Let me out.”

“It’s a surprisingly quick and painless process. I promise you that.”

“I don’t care! Give me the bloody key and let me out of here.”

“That’s no way to talk. You're frightfully rude, who raised you? How about, _please, let me out_? And here I was, thinking you were a well-mannered young man.”

Louis retraced his steps back to the living room, fuming. Harry hadn’t moved an inch.

“Fuck you. And everybody else. I’ll be as rude as I please. Let me out right now.”

It took Harry a second to register his words. He frowned, and took his time to stand up from the couch. He approached slowly - Louis did not back down. “Apologize, _at once_ , Louis.”

“No.”

“I'm going to give you to the count of three. One.”

Louis stood his ground, teeth clenched and fists balled at his sides. He did not even look down or away from Harry’s eyes.

The lights were dimming down. The world seemed to shimmer a little at the edges.

“Two.”

Taken aback, but mostly curious, Louis remained quiet. A crystal vase that was standing on the edge of the fireplace fell to the ground and broke into a thousand pieces.

All the lights were off, now - the moon was the only source of light.

“Three,” he completed.

Harry broke their eye contact at last, only to crouch down in order to retrieve a tiny key from among the shards of glass. Louis had no time to react before Harry grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him with an astounding strength down the narrow hallway. Louis struggled and fought, screaming at him, hitting him, scratching him - all to no avail. Harry did not let go. He unlocked one of the last doors and opened it wide. “You may come out when you’ve learned some manners.”

His words boomed in the house as he brutally shoved him into what appeared to be a broom closet, and then he shut the door which he immediately locked.

It was pitch black. He couldn’t see a thing. In his panic, he pounded against the door from the inside, shouting at him to let him out. But soon, the door itself seemed to have disappeared. In its place a cold, hard cement wall. He patted the wall, looking for the door; but nothing. Even the handle was gone. He punched the wall then, as he became hysterical. He gave hit after hit, scratching his skin against the stone. Eventually he gave up, out of breath and tears pooling in his eyes. He retreated slowly, blind and lost, his breath so loud it was bouncing off the walls.

His foot bumped into something, and he started in fear when he heard a girl’s voice behind him.

“Ow… My leg.”

He backed up against the cement wall, terror-stricken. He wouldn’t be in the dark for much longer, for a faint halo of bluish light appeared in front of him.

He realized, to his horror, that he was not alone.

A young girl was lying on the floor in a fetal position. A boy was sitting next to her, his legs drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. They looked about the same age as he was. But they were frighteningly pale, and when he looked closely, he realized they were slightly transparent. He could see the edges of the wall through the bodies.

The girl sat up slowly, looking up at him. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief.

Her voice, so hesitant and so faint Louis wondered if he were imagining it, said to him, “Are you… are you alive, sir?”

It sounded so unreal - like something out of a dream. A slight echo accompanied her words.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice shaky and unsure. “And… Who… Who are you?”

He didn’t need an answer. He knew exactly who they were.

That girl. That face. He’d seen it before. The mole above her lips, the wavy hair and the big, white bow — it was Jane Walker. The old neighbour’s lost twin sister.

Then he looked over at the boy. He recognized those absent, down-turned blue eyes, the slightly frizzy hair: it was Victor Myers, the teenage boy who’d disappeared thirteen years ago.

And they both looked like they hadn’t aged a year.

Terrified, he asked, “How long have you been in there?”

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he noticed that Jane’s dress was stained with blood on her chest. And so was Victor’s shirt; the blood was black, dried, and in the shape of a long, vertical scar.

“I don’t remember,” Jane replied. “It’s been so long. So very long a time.”

Louis sat down against the wall, facing them. Jane and Victor stared intently at him - it had been years since they’d seen anyone.

“What happened to you all?” asked Louis. “How did you get here?”

“He's the one who abandoned us there,” replied Victor. “He stole our hearts, he stole our souls, he took our lives away, and then he locked us up here in the dark and forgot about us.

“Oh, sir,” sighed Jane. “He’ll promise you the sun and the moon… But you mustn’t believe him. He’s lured us here with promises of love and eternal life… He’s a fine, fine talker.”

“He spied into our lives,” added Victor. “Through the painting, he has. And he saw that we weren’t happy…”

“We’ve let him take our hearts…”

“But we still wanted more…”

“Oh, sir,” begged Jane. “You must run. Run, while there's still air in your lungs and blood in your veins and warmth in your heart. Run, while you still have your mind and your soul..”

“He’s as unforgiving as they come.”

“He will take your life and all you are and all you care for, and he will leave you with nothing but mist and fog. He'll take your joy. And one day you'll awake and your heart and your soul will have gone. A husk you'll be, a wisp you'll be, and a thing no more than a dream on waking, or a memory of something forgotten.”

And then she fell silent. The pale figures pulsed faintly; he could imagine that they were nothing more than afterimages, like the glow left by a bright light in one’s eyes, after the lights go out.

The room was cold. Whenever he breathed, a little cloud of mist would escape from his lips.

Upon reflection, it wasn’t hard to figure out how much time these two had spent in this room. Jane had disappeared when Mr. Walker was only a teen. Shivers ran down his spine as he was faced with the fact that she’d likely been there since the 1850s. Victor had probably been locked up here since 1910. But none of these findings frightened him as much as the fact that Harry had lied about his age. He was not twenty years old. He was much, much older.

“You fell in love with him, didn’t you?” he asked them, weakly.

“You mustn’t blame us, sir,” said Victor. “He’s particularly charming. And handsome. And talented, too. When he told me he’d built this entire world just for me, I loved him all the more. I trusted him with my life. And I let him slice open my chest… I may have lost most of my memory, but I’ll never forget how much I suffered. He dug his hand between my ribs and ripped my heart out… admired it as I was agonizing.”

“What does he do with it?” Louis asked, paralyzed with fear, and mostly disgust.

“Oh but he feeds on it, sir,” said Jane. “He bit right into mine. It’s his strength, you know. He hasn’t eaten in a long, long time. He must be starving.”

“If he wants my heart, he’ll have to let me out of here.”

“He will, make no mistake,” whispered Victor. “For you’re still alive. But you must be ready, if you want to escape. You must outsmart him.”

“If he opens the door, you could escape with me.”

“We wished that we could,” replied Jane between two sighs, in her barely audible little voice. “But he has our souls in his keeping. This is why we could not leave. He kept us, and he fed on us as he waited for his next meal, until now we’re nothing left of ourselves. We belong to the dark and to the empty places. The light would shrivel us, and burn.”

Louis took his jumped and rolled it into a ball to use it as a pillow against the cold floor. He tossed and turned to try to find a comfortable position. He felt tired, all of a sudden.

His eyes were staring into the void. He asked one last question,“Does that mean you’re both dead?”

“We do not die in his world, sir,” they replied in their weak, barely-there voice. “’It is a fate far worse than death.”

This was the last answer he was given before their light went out completely, and he could no longer distinguish them in the dark.

They fell quiet, too accustomed to the silence; in their case, decades-long silence.

*

He woke up a few hours later. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep, and now his body was aching all over from sleeping on the hard ground. He opened his eyes, only to find himself in complete darkness. Naturally, panic settled in at first. He sat up at once, clutching his sweater vest. He looked around, and let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the door was there, and it was just slightly open. A faint beam of light entered the room. Without further ado, he got to his feet and walked out, closing behind him so the light wouldn’t reach the ghosts, as he recalled it would be fatal to them.

The source of said light, he found out, was from those tiny torches on the walls of the hallway, each spaced out by at least a meter. Otherwise, the house was dark.

He put his sweater on and crossed the hall, heading towards the living room. As he approached, he could hear his muffled voice. He stopped, and listened closely. He appeared to be rehearsing lines, as he switched between a man and a woman’s voice.

_“Now look here, Charles, this display of roguish flippancy might have been alluring. In a middle-aged novelist it's nauseating.”_

_“I don't see what I've done that's so awful?”_

_“You behaved abominably last night. You wounded me and insulted me.”_

_“I was a victim of an aberration!”_

_“Nonsense. You were drunk.”_

He stepped into the living room at last. It was definitely bigger. The ceiling was higher too. Through the tall windows, he could see that it was nighttime still. A fire was burning bright in the fireplace.

And there he was, lying on the long, red-velvet chair. He looked different somehow. First of all, he was much taller, and slender too. His arms and legs seemed to be infinite, and so very slim. He was dressed in a black suit with thin, vertical red stripes, which made him look even taller. His complexion was worryingly pale, to the point of looking sickly. He was holding a script in his left hand, reading the lines out loud.

His fingers, whose nails were painted black, picked a heart-shaped strawberry from a bowl on the coffee table, which he then dipped into a small cup of melted chocolate before bringing it to his mouth.

He smiled wide as soon as he saw Louis, and set his script down.

“They say even the proudest spirits can be broken, with love.”

He bit into his strawberry.

“Want some?”

“No.”

“See I’ve let you out, haven’t I? You needed to be taught a lesson, but we temper our justice with mercy here, and though we hate the sin, we do love the sinner. Now, if you will be good, compliant and fair-spoken, you and I shall understand each other perfectly and we shall love each other perfectly as well. Sit down, if you please.”

Louis complied. He went to sit in a little chair, stiff as a stick, and watched as he kept on eating his oddly shaped strawberries. And while he did that, he silently tried to come up with a way of escaping. He knew he had to be smarter than him.

“The first time someone walked through that door,” said Harry, solemnly, “it was 1732. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

His blood froze in his veins. “You’ve lied about your age.”

“I’ve not lied. You’ve simply made a guess and you’ve gone with it. Besides, would you have believed me if I told you I was two hundred and thirteen years old?”

“I'm not an idiot. I know you want to hurt me.”

“Says who?” he asked with an amused smile on his lips.

“...The ghosts in the closet.”

He let out a derisive laughter, and said, “I have no ill intentions with you, make no mistake. Nobody sensible believes in ghosts anyway…. That's because they're all such liars.”

“Victor and Jane. You took their hearts.”

“Not without their consent. We need to be clear about these things.”

“I hope you know you’ll never get mine.”

To that, Harry had nothing to say. He simply kept on chewing the contents of his mouth while staring at him. His eyes were harsh and stern, as though he were looking right into his soul. Louis wanted nothing else than to get up and run, but he remained motionless.

“Hm,” he dipped another strawberry in the chocolate, and gobbled it all up in one go. “You were a piece of work. I find it’s getting harder and harder to draw somebody into this world, as yours evolves. You people never seem to be satisfied. You always need more. More proof, more entertainment, more love. I’d half a mind to lock that door myself, ages ago, to keep you from doing your little back-and-forth.”

“You knew I was miserable in my world before I even told you about it, didn’t you?”

“Certainly.”

“How?”

“The painting. Remember that beautiful woman? The lady with the flowers, as you called her. That’s my mother. She’s the one who witnessed your plight, and brought it all back to me.”

“My sister was hurting, too. Why didn’t you let her in?”

“I don’t want anything to do with your sister. She’s far too skeptical. And smart. Which... you aren't.”

Louis thought about it. It took him a while, and then it dawned on him, reality crashing down on his head like a leaden shroud. “The other Alexander; was that you the whole time?”

“In a sense, yes. Everything he did, everything he said to you, I told him to. Convincing, wasn’t it?”

He held back tears, gritting his teeth. It was just plain cold-blooded and cruel, to lure him into his world in the midst of his grief, leading him on with a vulgar copy of his lover and making him so shallow and despicable he ended up being repulsed by him, just so he could be drawn to Harry when it all crashed down. He felt betrayed, and downright stupid for having fallen into his trap.

“You're despicable.”

“Oh, please.”

From a tiny hole in the wall near the front door, a cockroach crawled in. It crossed the hallway in search of food, and soon found itself in the living room. Its little legs led it to the foot of the red sofa. Harry looked down at the insect. “Well, look who’s here.” He reached out his hand, grabbed it by its antennas, and without hesitation he dipped it into the melted chocolate. He pulled it out and took a bite out of it. Louis almost threw up right then, squirming in disgust on his chair when he heard the horrible sound of the insect crunching under his teeth. Another poor cockroach found its way to him, and he caught it as well. “Want some? Dipped in chocolate, it’s simply divine. And it’s full of protein. I believe you people need that to live.”

“You’re disgusting. And insane.”

“That’s not very nice,” he defended, his mouth still full of cockroaches. “Are you always this rude?”

“I’m going home. And you can’t stop me.”

“I don’t have to. You’ll be back eventually.”

“Like hell.”

“I love you,” he said. “See you soon, Louis.”

His words should’ve raised his doubts. It was odd that he was willing to let him go without putting up a fight. But Louis couldn’t seem to find another option, and so he stood up and left the room. The front door opened by itself, almost like an invitation to leave.

Before he set foot outside, a song started playing. He’d heard it before, an oddly familiar tune, very evidently aimed at poking fun at him.

_“Run rabbit – run rabbit – Run! Run! Run! Don't give the farmer his fun! Fun! Fun! He'll get by... Without his rabbit pie... So run rabbit – run rabbit – Run! Run! Run!”_

He stepped out, but the song continued playing outside. The garden was very still; there wasn’t a hint of wind, or a single insect around. The crickets no longer chirped. For the first time, the immensity of the garden chilled him to the bone. At night, without its pretty lights, nothing could have been more off-putting.

As soon as he walked through the door of Apartment B, he was overcome with a violent urge to vomit. A smell of rotting flesh was stagnating in the air, so powerful and dense he had to cover his nose and mouth to refrain from throwing the contents of his stomach on the floor. On the ground, a line of cockroaches pattered by and took advantage of the open door to get out. It did not immediately strike him just how different the place was. The wallpaper was crumbling, peeling in some places. There were water leaks and fungus on the wall, and the stench of death was only getting stronger. All the lights were out. Only the moonlight found its way into the real slum that this place had turned into.

He looked for his other parents in hopes that they could help. He went into the kitchen first, as it was often where his other mother could be found.

He had never been so right. He walked into the pitch-black kitchen, and as soon as he turned the lights on, he wished he never had.

For there she stood by the counter, facing him. It was his other mother, but she looked nothing like her. She was, for lack of better words, a rotting corpse. She had but her pale, purulent skin on her bones, her brown hair was all greasy and tangled, and her eyes - they were milky white, as if they’d been affected by cataract. She remained completely still, but she appeared to be looking directly at him.

Had been, even before he’d turned the light on.

He was frozen in place, incapable of moving or saying anything, welded to the spot by the sight. He thought he saw the outline of a smile lifting the corner of her lips.

“Well, then?” she said, in the same sweet voice she’d always had. “How did it go?”

He turned the lights off at once and raced towards the drawing room. There he found Hester at the piano. She too was nothing but skin and bones, rotting away like a corpse would be. Yet she was playing a song, a slow, gloomy, ill-tuned melody. More often than not, she would play the wrong notes. He walked right past her and tried to open the door. It was locked. And the key was no longer in his pockets.

He turned to her for help. Her hair was dirty and matted, soiled with a brown, mud-like substance. “Hester,” he whispered, cautiously. “I need your help. Please… I have to get out of here.”

She ignored him still. He looked around the room, in case the other mother - or somebody else - was watching them. They were alone.

“Please,” he begged. “I need the key.”

When she didn’t respond, he took the risk of shaking her arm to get her attention. He instantly regretted it, as her entire limb dislocated and fell off her shoulder, hitting the ground in a loud and sickening thud.

She stopped playing at once, and he stepped back, horrified. The girl finally turned her head towards him. Her eyes were just as white as her mother’s. She looked at him, and then at her arm on the ground. “Look what you’ve done,” she growled. “Who’s going to fix it, now?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Could you please help me find the key, I need t-”

“You’re not going anywhere. He’s getting weaker. He needs to eat. His strength, is our strength.”

He fled the room and dashed up the stairs, hoping to find the key somewhere in his bedroom, Perhaps he’d left it in the pockets of another pair of trousers.

Upstairs was just as dark as the ground floor. All his senses were heightened; he could hear the little pitter-patter of the cockroaches crawling on the walls. The corridor seemed to be much, much longer than usual. He’d walked for several seconds before he could get his hands on a light-switch.

The light revealed the presence of the twins, down the hall. They were standing side by side, facing him. Their eyes were white, their bodies thin and their skin rotting away. They didn’t move nor did they make a sound. One of them had her mouth sewn shut with black thread. He passed them quietly; the one whose lips had been sealed turned her head and followed him with her eyes.

Once he entered his bedroom, he did not lose a second and started rummaging through his closet and drawers in search of the key. A sudden sound in the doorway startled him; it opened with a little squeak. He froze in place, kneeling by a pile of clothes. One of the twins peeked in, and then let herself in. He recognized her; it was Maggie. She was the one who’d had her mouth sewn shut. By whom, he had no idea yet. She beckoned him over with her finger, as if to get him to follow her. When he didn’t move, she came closer and pulled him by the sleeve, pointing at the hallway.

“I’m looking for the key,” he whispered. “Have you got it?”

She kept on pulling his sleeve, more insistent, urging him to get up. He did just that. They walked past the other father’s study, who was standing by the door frame, motionless as a statue. It was so dark he could only make out a slight silhouette.

Maggie rushed him down the stairs, never letting go of his sleeve. She led him to the kitchen and turned the light on before pointing at the other mother’s apron.

“Is the key in there?”

The little girl simply nodded.

Louis took a deep breath, and mustered the courage to approach the woman, who hadn’t even moved an inch. Her white eyes stared at him, but she did nothing.

She only reacted once he reached into the front pocket of her apron. Her cold, skeletal fingers clung firmly onto his wrist. He grabbed her arm with his other hand, desperately trying to break free. He seized the key, clenching his fingers around it. He struggled, but her grip was strong- she would not let go.

“Why would you want to run away?” she asked, innocently. “Haven’t we given you enough? Haven’t we loved you enough, darling?”

“Let go of me.”

“He’ll get you, you know, it's only a matter of time. You’re falling right into his trap. He's been doing this... for centuries. Oh, how he’s yearned for the day somebody would cross that door..”

“ _Let go of me_!”

He managed to free himself by shoving her against the oven, and then he sprinted to the drawing room, itching with the feeling of being chased. He fumbled to push the key into the lock, his hands were shaking too much and the other mother was getting closer. Finally, it opened with a click, and he was sure he’d never run this fast in his entire life.

Once he was back in the real world, and safe, he locked the door, out of breath, his clothes covered in dust, spiderwebs in his hair. The corridor must’ve been particularly gross that night.

He knew it was far from over.


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m back!” he cried out. “Mother?”

Nothing.

It was daylight; nine o’clock in the morning on his watch. By now, his family should be having breakfast. But the dining room and the kitchen were empty. He called out to his parents and older sister, over and over, only to be met with a bone-chilling silence. He seemed to be alone.

He’d been missing for several days. Perhaps they’d gone looking for him. If that was the case, he had no way to contact them and reassure them. Besides, what could he have told them, anyway? That he’d been stuck in a parallel universe?

Something in the kitchen drew his attention. The fruit on the counter had started to rot. As had the food in the refrigerator.

Before he did anything, he went back to the drawing room, made sure the door was locked and nudged a chair under the handle, just in case. The painting of the Lady with the Flowers hadn’t changed in the slightest, but as a precaution he took it down. On the spot where it used to hang, the wallpaper was just a bit lighter. He lay it face down on the floor.

Hours went by, and still no sign of his family. Up in his sisters’ rooms, their belongings were strewn about; clothes and toys scattered on the floor and the bed. If they’d admittedly left, they must have done so in a hurry. His father’s desk in his study was saturated with papers and half empty cups of tea. Knowing him, he would’ve never left behind such a mess.

There was a knock at the door. He opened it, his heart filled with perhaps too hasty a delight. It all came crashing down at breakneck speed when he realized it was only the postman. He held a thick pile of letters in his hand.

“Tomlinson family?”

“…Yes.”

“Your mail’s been piling up for days. The mailbox was overflowing. I came to make sure everything was all right.”

“I uh…”

What was he to say?

If everything was all right? He himself hadn’t the slightest idea. He took the mail.

“Thank you.”

He shut the door without further explanation, and found himself alone once again. Save for the ticking of a clock in the parlour, the silence was deafening.

He washed up and changed his clothes, repeating to himself that they were going to turn up eventually, sometime in the afternoon, or even at night. Once in a while he’d peek into the drawing room. The door, fortunately, remained closed. The chair hadn’t moved, neither had the painting. And so it was true. Harry really wasn’t going to go after him. On the surface, it should have been reassuring. But reassured was the exact opposite of how he felt. What could possibly convince him to go back voluntarily?

He would get his answer fairly quick.

Three days went by without any news of his family. In the meantime, he went out into town to shop with the last of his savings, since everything in the kitchen was inedible. He popped by the nearest hospital to inquire about his mother. At the front desk, he was told that no woman of that name had been admitted recently. It was at once comforting to know that she wasn’t so ill as to find herself confined to a hospital room, and distressing too, because where else could she be?

By the end of the third day, he decided to go home. He’d been ambling around town with a tight throat and a heavy heart as he slowly came to terms with the terrible truth.

He walked right past the real Winter Garden Theatre. The one that had been abandoned. The glass doors were dirty, the carpet was a cold, faded red, and the front desk was deserted. The big frames where theatre programmes would’ve been displayed were empty. He felt incredibly naive, right then.

Once he was back home, he ran into the real Mr. Walker, sitting on his porch. Louis approached him, his steps heavy and resolute. “Good evening, Mr. Walker.”

The old man nodded at him, and this time he did not ask who he was. “You look exhausted,” he noted.

“My family’s disappeared,” he explained. “Did you happen to see them leave, by any chance?”

“No. When did they go missing?”

“I’m not sure. It’s been days.” Louis sat on the floor, next to his chair. “I know what happened to your sister. Jane.”

“Jane,” he echoed. “How do you know Jane?”

“You’ve told me about her.”

There was a long moment of silence. The sky was overcast, the clouds were low and the night was falling. Louis looked up at his neighbour; the man was staring straight ahead, his hands folded on his lap.

“You went through that door, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

Mr. Walker pursed his lips, and nodded slowly; it looked like it was all coming back to him. “I tend to forget, you know. Most of the time, when I try to remember what happened, it becomes blurry, and I get confused. But sometimes I have these little moments of lucidity. They’re short, but they’re as vivid as can be. And I can’t help but blame him. It’s his doing. I’m sure of it. He made it so I wouldn’t remember what he’d done to us. To her.”

“Are you talking about…”

“Yes. Jane didn’t walk through that door by herself. I was with her. He liked her better than me because she had her head in the clouds… she’d marvel at every beautiful thing she encountered… and she never once asked herself the right questions. He hated me because I saw right through him from day one. I tried to run away with her… But she insisted on staying. She was madly in love, see. He drove me away, chased me from his world and locked me out. When I tried to come back for Jane, I was faced with this God awful brick wall. Every single time. I’ve not seen my sister since. To this day I feel guilty about leaving her with him. God knows what she endured…. Now… If I can remember all of this, it only means one thing.”

“What is it?”

“He’s getting weaker,” he concluded, turning his head to him. “You ran away, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You did the right thing. Don’t you go back. No matter what he might’ve said to you.”

“But why is he doing this? Who… _What_ is he, exactly?”

“I reckon he needs someone to love. Someone other than himself. Someone who loves him back. Or perhaps he needs to eat. Or both. It’s hard to tell with this kind of creature.”

_*_

The sound of the tap dripping in the kitchen sink over and over was driving him mad. It was nighttime. Louis was eating alone in the dining room. He knew now that his family was not coming back. He’d a hard time admitting it. Because doing so would mean that Harry had been right all along.

That very evening, as he walked past the drawing room, he heard his mother’s voice, loud and clear, calling out to him.

“Louis?”

His heart missed a beat. He looked around. “Mother?”

“Louis, darling, where are you?”

Her voice seemed to come from the dreaded room. He turned the lights on; of course, of course it was empty. Her words were muffled, as if she was hidden behind the door. He squinted at it - he would not be fooled. Then, a piece of paper slid from under the door. He approached, though he had no intention of opening it.

The words seemed to have been traced in the handwriting of a very young child. It was awkward and shaky, and it was signed by Maggie T.

_Lou you need to help us were skared pleas pleas hes got me and mumy and dady and hester and rose and hes so skary i want to go home pleas help us_

It was so gripping he didn’t even take the time to consider it might have been a trap. He went to knock at the neighbour’s door, with the paper in hand.

“He’s got my family.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I have to go back,” he announced gravely, handing him the paper.

Mr. Walker put his glasses on and read the note. “You know, if you go back then you’ll be walking right into his trap. For your own sake, I hope you’ve realized that all those notes you’ve been getting… were written by him.”

“I don’t care. My family’s out there. I know it. Otherwise why would he be so confident I’d run back to him?”

The man went to sit on his old chair, the one next to the table where all the photographs, including Jane’s, stood.

“You tried to go back as well,” Louis reminded him. “Even though you knew he only had bad intentions. You wanted to save your sister.”

Mr. Walker stared longingly at Jane’s photograph. “I suppose I can't blame you.”

“You should come with me. I know where she is.”

“I doubt that door would open for me.”

“We could try.”

It was quite risky. After all, neither of them was guaranteed to come back unscathed - or even come back at all. The old man claimed he had nothing to lose anymore, and that if he could see his sister one last time, if only to apologize properly, it would all be worth the hassle. And so, he prepared himself while Louis waited anxiously on the doorstep.

When they found themselves in the drawing room, they just stood there for a moment, and stared at the damned door. Louis’ heart was pounding against his chest, whereas Mr. Walker seemed to slowly recall everything that had seemed to slip away with the years. The closer he got, the less foggy it became. There was no doubt; it was the work of The Thing on the other side.

“I’m the one who dragged Jane into the other world,” he admitted. “I found the key. I convinced her to cross that door with me.”

“It’s my fault,” said Louis. “If I hadn’t been so gullible, we wouldn’t even be here.”

“It’s what he does. It’s what he’s been doing for decades. You aren’t any less clever than the others. The boy’s cunning. One thing I’ve noticed when I was around him: he loves games. He’s a narcissist, of course, he thrives when he’s cheered and acclaimed and complimented and proven right… But most of all, he’s very fond of games. Challenge him. I can’t assure you he’ll play fair, but at least he won’t refuse.”

“What kind of game?”

“Any game. Think about it.”

Louis pulled the chair from under the door, took out the key and pushed it into the lock. He took a deep breath, and opened it. Before him was the corridor he knew so well.

“Shall we go?”

Mr. Walker just nodded, and Louis went ahead, leading the way, clenching the cold, rusty key in his hand, so tight the tiny metal teeth left their imprints in his palm. Mr. Walker trailed closely behind, quiet as a mouse. An icy draft blew through the hall.

They’d not even been halfway through when the other door opened with a creak, letting in a blinding stream of light. Louis stopped in his tracks.

“Louis, is that you?” said his mother’s voice.

And then she appeared at the door. It was his real mother. The one he knew and loved. She was pale and sickly looking, but above all she looked beyond frightened. Tears were pooling in her eyes. “Louis… I was so scared…”

“Mother…”

He ran to her, ignoring Mr. Walker’s feeble attempt to hold him back. He practically jumped into her arms as she hugged him tight.

“Oh, Louis, darling.. Why would you ever run away from me?”

Something was wrong. Her voice had gotten deeper, and whoever he was hugging had grown taller, thinner, and colder to the touch. He backed away in horror.

It was him.

He laughed - cracked up like a right freak. A demented laugh that resonated deep in Louis’ bones. He was the only one laughing, of course. With a swift gesture of the hand, he undid the buttons of the dress he was wearing. Louis’ mother’s. He ripped his pearl necklace and threw it away somewhere. Now he was only dressed in the striped suit he had before Louis had escaped.

“I told you I liked to play dress-up. Aren’t I just so good at being a woman?…. Welcome back!”

Louis was frozen in place. Mr. Walker came out the door in turn. Harry’s eyes landed on him immediately, and he grinned.

“And you’ve brought a friend with you… Why hello Ernie. Long time no see…. The more, the merrier, as they say.”

Behind them, the door slammed shut by itself. Louis dropped the key in shock. It was too late when he noticed. Harry had already swiped it off the floor, dropped it into his mouth and swallowed it.

“You came back. You’re here to stay, I presume.”

“Where’s my family?” asked Louis, who had no time to partake in his little game. “I know you’ve taken them.”

“These are very serious accusations. Where’s your proof?”

“I just know. That was your plan all along wasn’t it? Surely you didn’t expect me to come back of my own free will.”

“I don’t see why you’d want your _old_ family back. You’ve a perfectly respectable one in this world. Have a look.”

He bent down to pick up the other Hester’s decomposing, severed arm. He walked around the sofa, and grabbed her by the ankle, dragging her lifeless body on the floor towards them. Louis and the old man backed off. If he didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn she was dead, for he was practically pulling her dead weight around. Harry crouched down by her, and tried to reattach her arm to her shoulder.

“Hush,” he said. “She’s asleep. Don’t make a noise or you’ll wake her… There you go,” he concluded once he’d stuck the limb back to her body. “Good as new.”

“Harry.”

Hearing his name took him by surprise. He stopped what he was doing at once, and looked up at him. Louis came closer and crouched down before him.

“May I ask you for a favour?”

“Well, you may _try_.”

“He’d like to see his sister. Or at least, what’s left of her. It’s the least you can do. You owe him that. And besides, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“… I suppose I could. It was asked so kindly.”

In no time at all, they were back in Harry’s place. He unlocked the room where the ghosts had been locked for years. Faint voices resonated from the inside - they were scared. Harry frightened them, and for good reason too.

“Oh, quiet,” he snapped at them. “I’ve half a mind to shine the brightest light on you two. Little tattletales that you are.” He stood back, and pointed at the room. “The girl is in there.”

The old man glared at him with such hatred and contempt that Louis could almost feel his pain. He walked into the dark room. He recognized his sister, and couldn’t help but weep as he saw her. He took her hand, thin and cold, and begged for forgiveness, for having dragged her into this, for not having been able to save her - forgiveness, for not having done everything in his power to find her all these years. He apologized profusely to Victor, whom he’d seen disappear before he could warn him. He apologized, because back then, he hadn’t been able to remember.

But Jane had forgotten most of her life. Her little voice strived to make itself heard: “My apologies, sir… I don’t know who you are.”

“It’s me… Ernest. I’m your brother.”

“I’m truly sorry. I know how you must feel. How brave you are.. for coming back here. I pray he’ll have mercy on your soul.”

Meanwhile, Louis side-glanced at The Thing standing next to him. He’d started to call him The Thing in his mind, as he knew now that he was not a human being but some kind of monster.

“I've never met anyone as cruel and insensitive as you.”

He held out his hand, holding Louis' chin up with two of his fingers, forcing him to look at him.

“Haven’t I given you everything? Haven’t I given you back the love of your life, you ungrateful little boy? Would someone as cruel and insensitive as me have gone to these lengths just to feed himself?”

Louis didn’t answer, and so he kept going.

“Your world is a miserable, lifeless and pretentious place. I know more about it than you do. You were leading a wretched existence. I’ve seen your heart. I knew you were so terribly unhappy, I could feel it from beyond that door. I’ve created this place from scratch just for you. And the people, too. Your lover, whom you ended up rejecting. Your family, which you abandoned with no remorse.”

“None of this was real.”

“See that’s your problem. It’s never enough for you. You know… Jane used to love the garden. She’d spend her days among the flowers and the trees, she’d have daily naps in the grass, you’d think she’d landed in Heaven. Victor wanted to be an actor. I gave him that. He was the best of them. I gave them everything, but it wasn’t enough for them. They all turned on me. So did the others, the ones who came before them…. And they say I’m the insensitive one.”

For the first time since he’d met him, he seemed to be truly outraged and, dare he say, hurt. He spun on his heels and left briskly, disappearing at the corner of the hall.

*

Harry had vanished. He was nowhere to be seen. And perhaps it was a good thing.

After such an ordeal, Mr. Walker went out on the porch. Through the window overlooking his doppelgängers place, he saw himself, sitting on a chair, his mouth sewn shut with black thread, his corpse rotting away, slowly being eaten by maggots and cockroaches alike.

The moon had never been so bright that night. But the plants were dying. Flowers were withering, fruits were rotting, trees and shrubs were losing their leaves. The illusion was running out of steam. Just like Harry.

Louis ventured into the garden. It was very chilly, all of a sudden. The plants that weren’t already dead started fainting in his path. He remained alert, actively looking for clues that might tell him where his family was. He was still not quite sure where he was heading. He set off into the woods.

The trees became cruder and less tree-like the further he went. Fairly soon they seemed very approximate, like the idea of trees: a greyish-brown trunk below, a greenish splodge of something that might have been leaves above.

Louis wondered if The Thing wasn't interested in trees, or if he just hadn't bothered with this bit properly because nobody was expected to come out this far. He wondered what had become of the other Upper Redley at this time, and of the beach they’d visited.

He kept walking. And then the mist began. It was not damp, like a normal fog or mist. It was not cold and it was not warm. It felt to him like he was walking into _nothing_. The world he was roaming was a pale nothingness, like a blank sheet of paper or an enormous, empty white room. It had no temperature, no smell, no texture and no taste.

Still he moved forward, even though he could not see a thing. Suddenly, the silhouette of the house drew itself on the horizon line. First, it looked like a pencil sketch of a house, then a full-on drawing, an increasingly realistic painting, until it merged with what seemed to be reality. Or at least, this world’s version of it. He was back at the exact place he’d left. Mr. Walker was still on the porch when Louis approached, utterly confused.

Around him, the garden seemed to have gotten smaller. And it was. The world he’d created was slowly but surely folding in on itself, and losing ground.

“How can you walk away from something and still come back to it?”

“Walk around the world.”

“Small world.”

“It's big enough for him,” he said. “Spiders’ webs only have to be large enough to catch flies. He’s only created what he knew would impress you.”

“Did he make this place, then? All of it, I mean.”

“Made it, found it, what’s the difference? Either way, he’s had it a long time.”

“Mr. Walker.”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to stay here?”

“Don’t worry about me. Do what you have to do.”

*

After what seemed to be hours of searching, Louis had half a mind to give up. All he wanted was to go home and find his family waiting for him, for all of this to be an incredibly realistic nightmare. He promised himself he would never complain again if he made it out alive. He had no desire to end up like Jane and Victor, or Mr. Walker.

And then he recalled the advice he’d been given upon entering.

He went to knock at Harry’s front door, and waited. Of course, it opened by itself- all the doors in this place seemed to have a mind of their own.

He entered at his own risk, remaining fully alert. Perhaps he was keeping them captive in a room he had yet to explore.

A male voice was humming a song from the kitchen. Right then, a delicious smell found its way to him. It reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in a while.

He entered the kitchen and, as expected, Harry was there. He’d just pulled out a large plate from the oven. A golden, roast chicken. “Invited yourself over for dinner, haven’t you?”

He didn’t even need to turn around to know that Louis was there.

“That’s all right. I’ve made enough for the both of us. I hope you’re hungry,” he said, transferring the chicken onto a round, decorative plate he set down in the middle of the table. Some salad, and a plate of fuming, crispy potatoes were alreadythere. “Have a seat.”

Louis did, compliantly. He had a plan in mind. Harry returned to the stove, and with a wooden spoon he started stirring something in a saucepan, over the fire. “I’m not angry with you. I could never be. I wouldn’t want to spoil the only good thing that’s happened to me in a decade. I knew you were coming, see. I’ve waited for you all this time. How I’ve yearned… for you. Oh, I hold no grudge.”

“Is that right? Does that mean you can predict the future?” he asked mockingly, wedging his chin in the palm of his hand, his elbow digging into the table. “Is that another one of your superpowers?”

“ _Elbows off the table_ ,” he commanded dryly, though he hadn’t even turned around yet. “One thing I despise is when people don’t seem to know proper table etiquette. What, were you raised in a barn?”

Louis rolled his eyes and positioned his arms properly.

“That’s more like it.”

At last, he turned to face him. He’d noticeably lost weight, and he was even paler than before. His cheekbones were jutting out, as were his jawlines and collarbones. His hair had remained the same length, it was just as curly and shiny and soft as day one. Other than that, he looked every bit like some nightmarish character. He grabbed the saucepan and came to pour its contents over the chicken; the gravy looked simply scrumptious.

“You’re doubting my words,” said Harry, very quietly.

“I just find it hard to believe, that’s all.”

“Hold that thought. In a few years, another war will break out in Europe. Even more deadly than the first. You’ll hear of horrors mankind has never known before. It will be a time of dictatorships and terrible crimes, and your world will be scarred forever. _The war to end all wars_ ? Dear God, it’s like you’re asking to be laughed at.”

“I don't think you're supposed to tell me that kind of thing.”

“Yes, but what will you do with this information? Who would believe you?… Enjoy your meal, Louis.”

Louis helped himself generously while he went back to clean the counters. “I understand you're very fond of games, Harry.”

He stiffened up, but carried on with his task. His eyes flashed with something he couldn’t quite read. “ _Everybody_ loves games,” he defended.

“Let’s play one, then. Wouldn’t it be better if you won me, fair and square?”

“Possibly,” he said. He had a show of unconcernedness, but his fingers twitched and drummed and he licked his lips with his tongue. “What kind of game?”

“It would be an exploration game. I have until sunrise to find my family.”

“This is what you call a game?”

“If I succeed,” said Louis, “You let me go. In fact, you shall let everybody go. My family, the souls of Jane and Victor, and all those you’ve trapped here, so they may rest in peace.”

“Mh,” he hummed as he turned off the tap and leaned forward against the counter, one hand on either side of the sink. “But what if you fail?”

“Then I’ll let you take my heart. I’ll stay here with you forever, I’ll let you love me and I’ll be good, and you’ll have won.”

“That sounds very fine. I think I like this game. Yes, let’s play.”

Harry turned around, facing him. He smiled, but Louis wasn’t convinced.

“How do I know you'll keep your word?”

“I swear it. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

“Does she really have a grave?”

“Oh, yes. I buried her in there myself. And when I found her trying to crawl out, I put her back.”

“Swear on something else. So I can trust you to keep your word.”

“My right hand,” said Harry, holding it up. He waggled the long fingers slowly, displaying the claw-like, black nails. “I swear on that.”

“It’s a deal then.”

It was concluded, but Harry wouldn’t let him out of his sight. He stared at him blankly, and it was hard to decipher an expression in his eyes, but Louis guessed he was just as hungry as he was.

“Where should I start?” he asks.

To that, Harry gave no answer. With the tip of his fingernail, he tapped against the surface of the counter, gently, a steady tap-tap-tap.

“You won’t give me a hint? That’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

He went straight back to eating. It was delicious, he must admit.

The tap-tap of his nail against the counter was steady and relentless, like the drip of water droplets from the tap into the sink.

When Louis looked up again after a few seconds, he realized it was indeed a leaking tap. Harry was gone and he was alone in the kitchen. Louis shivered. He preferred The Thing to have a location: if he were nowhere, then he could be anywhere. And, after all, it was always easier to be afraid of something one could not see.

He left his unfinished plate aside and meandered about the house in search of his family. He called out to them, wandering the corridors and dozens of empty rooms. Soon he found himself in the living room, facing the massive bookshelf. A little clock on a shelf indicated three in the morning. He hadn’t much time left.

He jumped when a book threw itself on the floor. It had no title. He picked it up and opened it, only to find the pages blank. However, if he looked closely, he could see that a text was writing itself. On the first page, he read as the words were typed right in front of him.

**CHAPTER I**

**Down the Rabbit-Hole**

_Louis was beginning to get very tired of sitting by his sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice he had peeped into the book his sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Louis ‘without pictures or conversation?’_

He closed the book at once. The title carved itself in golden letters, taunting him: LOUIS IN WONDERLAND. He didn’t find it very amusing. As he was about to turn around, another book fell to the ground with a loud thud. He sighed loudly but picked it up nonetheless.

“Hilarious,” he said out loud to The Thing - wherever it was.

He opened the novel to a random page. Once again, the words were being typed as he read.

_‘I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me, and gives something to it. Oh, if it was only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day,—mock me horribly!’ The hot tears welled into his eyes; he tore his hand away, and, flinging himself on the divan, he buried his face in the cushions, as if he was praying._

_‘This is your doing, Harry,’ said Hallward, bitterly._

_‘My doing?’_

_‘Yes, yours, and you know it.’_

Having read enough to get a clear idea of what it must be, he closed the book. And, sure enough, the title appeared: The Picture of Dorian Gray. Louis put the book back in its place, beyond irritated. He was convinced Harry was wasting his time — in other words, he did not care to look any further than the fact that he was simply doing this to cheat.

He left Harry’s flat entirely, and walked up to Mr. Walker.

“I need your help,” he pleaded. “I’ve challenged him like you told me to. But I’ve no idea where he’s keeping my family.”

“He didn’t give you a hint?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. He nearly threw books at my face, but other than that…"

The old man shrugged. “If you want to take a look inside my flat, the door is open…. At your own risk. God knows what he’s done with the place.”

Louis didn’t lose a second. He covered his mouth and nose upon entering, so he wouldn’t have to endure the foul smell of rotting flesh. The other Mr. Walker was decomposing in his chair - very much alive, as he could tell by his heavy breathing. The good thing was that he ignored Louis completely. On the coffee table was the cake Louis had brought him a few days earlier, and Harry’s present. Inside was a spool of thread, and a needle, which he had used to sew his mouth shut. From that only, he concluded that he was the one who’d shut Maggie up.

Out the corner of his eye, he thought he’d seen something moving. The picture frames, on the little table - they were moving. First, he identified Mr. Walker’s son, the fallen soldier. In the photograph, he’d lost the uniform, having settled for everyday clothes, and he was smiling at the camera. Soon, a young woman joined him in the picture and posed with him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her on the cheek.

Next to the frame was Jane’s photograph. She was looking straight at him. Louis crouched to her level as she approached. She breathed on the inside of the glass, and quickly, before the fog faded, she spelled out the word _help_ with the tip of her forefinger.

“How can I help you?”

She breathed again, and wrote in tiny letters:

_take photo out of world_

_will free_

_my soul_

“Do you mean to say that he’s locked your soul into that photograph? If I escape with it, it’ll set you free?”

She nodded once, and he understood. He plucked the photograph out of the frame and slid it gently into his pocket.

He thought of Victor. How could he be set free as well? Was there a picture of him somewhere?

Of course there was. The article in the newspaper.

Before he knew it, he was back in Apartment B. He made a beeline for his other father’s study. It was empty. He was searching through his desk drawers when the door shut by itself, and the light bulb burnt out. He was left in total darkness.

“It’s all right, sir,” said a faint voice from a corner. It was Victor’s, undoubtedly. “I’m right here. I’ll give you some light.”

As promised, a feeble, bluish light came to life, just bright enough to tell objects apart. The boy stood very close to Louis and followed him around in his research. His body was cold as ice, Louis could feel it, but it was reassuring to know that he was not alone.

“He’s furious,” Victor confided to him. “He hadn’t expected you to find Jane’s soul.”

“To hell with him.”

Soon enough, he found a cardboard box under the desk. Victor came closer to give him a little more light. He looked through the newspapers to find the only one who talked about Victor’s disappearance. He ripped out the first page that contained his photograph, and put it in his pocket with the other one.

“Thank you, sir,” breathed Victor. “From the bottom of my heart. Thank you. I sure hope you’ll succeed.”

The ghost boy leaned in to place the lightest of kisses on Louis’ cheek. His lips were cold, but under his touch, Louis’ cheeks were heating up.

As if on cue, the door unlocked and opened with a creak. He stepped out, and was just about to hit the light-switch in the hallway when a cold hand touched his wrist and stopped him just in time.

“No light, sir,” said Victor. “Remember.. It would burn us.”

Jane appeared at his side. “We shall guide you until daybreak, should you need us.”

Louis looked at the both of them. “Do you know where he is?”

“No,” replied Victor. “But he’s never far. For all we know he could be standing right in front of us, and we wouldn’t see him.”

Louis’ skin was covered in goosebumps. He hated it. He hated _him_.

“You must hurry, sir. There’s not much time left.”

And right when he said that, Louis almost broke down. It was true. He’d lost valuable time trying to help them, and he still hadn’t a clue where his family was, or how to get home. He shook his head, defeated. “It’s pointless. I’ve looked everywhere. I’m not sure what went through my mind when I challenged him to this bloody game, but he’s obviously going to win. I’m sorry,” he apologized to them, his voice laced with upcoming tears.

“Don’t let up just yet, sir,” encouraged Jane. “Think. I’ve seen him throw those books at you.”

“Yeah, bloody bastard, what was that for?”

“He’s mocking you,” said Victor. “He thinks you aren’t bright enough to pick up on his hints. He was throwing them at your face.”

“A hint?”

“The books mentioned pictures, didn’t they?” said Jane, prodding him. “Did you know he’d imprisoned his own mother’s soul in a painting, hundreds of years ago? He kept her in there so she could spy on us.”

“So… A painting?”

“Yes. A painting. Or a photograph. An image, either way.”

He nodded gravely - and then suddenly, it seemed to have dawned on him. He groped his way down the stairs, closely followed by the two ghosts. He ran to the portrait of the lady with the flowers.

She was sitting down on the grass, her white dress fanning around her like the petals of a flower, and she held one of her children in her arms. A little boy, no older than five, his head buried in her chest as she stroked his hair ever so softly. Louis had no empathy for whatever this portrait was trying to show him. He’d been emotionally manipulated one too many times in the past. This time, he simply reached towards the frame and unhooked it before putting it face down on the floor.

And indeed, a large size photograph had been hidden underneath, taped to the wall. When he approached to take a closer look, tears of relief pooled in his eyes. It was his family, and the photograph was very much alive. They were all peering at him, scared out of their minds, especially the little twins. Hester stepped closer to the frame and held up a sign which read, “Help us”.

It was nearing dawn. As the first rays of sun penetrated the room, the ghosts retreated slowly, fearing that the light would reach them.

Before that could happen, the curtains were closed brutally. On their own, of course.

As if on cue, Harry returned just as Louis was hiding the photograph underneath his shirt. The Thing made its way down the stairs, slowly, each step of his was light and calculated; he walked the way a spider would. His skin was so white and pasty it was almost translucent; Louis could see a few fine veins underneath his skin. His eyes were more sunken than ever, his body and hands nearly skeletal. He was but a shadow of the boy he once knew.

“Good morning,” he said, low and dry. “Hello, you two,” he said to Jane and Victor. “Louis. How is your little game going?”

“I know where my family is.”

“Oh, is that right? You’ve found them, then?” he asked, noticeably surprised, though his tone of voice remained calm and poised.

“No. But I know where they are… They’re behind that door,” he pointed at the door he’d crossed many times now. “They’re in the corridor. I know it. I couldn’t find them, as you swallowed the key."

It was a ruse, of course. It was time Harry was given a taste of his own medicine. He knew very well his family wasn’t behind the door - since they were trapped in the photograph.

But Harry just missed the point. The corner of his lips lifted in a satisfied grin as he approached the door slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath his steps.

“You’re wrooong, Louis,” he croaked, his voice low and hoarse, straight out of a nightmare. He placed his hand in front of his mouth and coughed up the key, before pushing it into the lock. He opened the door wide, and pointed to the complete darkness of the hallway with a graceful gesture of the hand. “See?” he whispered softly. “They aren’t here. You’ve lost the game… Pity. You’re going to stay here forever.”

“Like hell I am.”

“Excuse me?”

Far behind him, Mr. Walker approached in quiet, cautious steps. He and Louis exchanged a quick glance. 

“I said. You can rot in here.”

Before Harry could react, Mr. Walker grabbed a glass vase and threw it at him. It smashed into the back of his head, and Louis took this time to escape through the open door. The ghosts followed him and sneaked in with him before he closed it. Victor had had time to grab the key, and handed it to him.

It was colder in the corridor, like stepping down into a cellar on a warm day.

He hadn’t anticipated Harry to follow him in there; after all, he’d never ventured this far, to his knowledge. But then the door opened back up with a gust of wind and Harry appeared straight ahead, droplets of black blood dripping down his face. Mr. Walker tried to pull him back to give Louis some time, but The Thing wouldn't have it. He shoved him back so brutally he fell backwards on the floor, and did not get up again. He then grabbed Louis by the hand and tried to pull him back in; Louis resisted with all his might. He held onto the door handle and tried to pull it shut — Harry did the same on his side.

“Let _go_ of me!” screamed Louis.

The ghosts huddled around him and theirs hands clung to the handle on Louis’ side; their fingers closed about his, as he pulled and pulled. Three of them were bound to be stronger than one. The door started to slip closed, easily as anything. There was a final moment of resistance, as if something were caught in the door, and then, with a crash, it banged closed. Something dropped to the floor. It landed with a sort of a scuttling thump. The force of the slam had severed Harry’s hand, which had been merely attached to his wrist by nothing more than thin ligaments and brittle bones.

His right hand. Which he had sworn on.

Louis leapt backwards in shock and disgust. He fell back to the ground, his eyes glued to the amputated limb of The Thing. Its fingers were moving. He bounced to his feet and locked the door with the key before taking a few steps back, out of breath and shaking to the core, eyes wide open in the near complete dark.

The silence lasted for a few seconds, before he heard a long, plaintive howl coming from the other side, from the depths of his soul - if he had one - and then something hit the door with a huge blow from outside, so loud and so powerful Louis was certain it had made the door move. And he was not wrong. The corridor had just gotten at least six feet shorter.

“Don’t leave me!” he screamed out, his voice hoarse and broken. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me!”

Louis quickly retreated as he heard another loud bang against the door. Each time he kicked at it, the door moved towards him. Terrified, he began racing towards the real world as the corridor lost more and more ground, and got shorter with every blow. Louis clung to this single thought, go home, go home, go home ; it was the only thing tethering him to consciousness. It was getting colder. He knew that if he fell in that corridor he might never get up again. Whatever it was, it was older by far than The Thing. It was deep, and slow, and _it_ _knew that he was there._

“DON'T LEAVE ME! DON'T LEAVE ME! I'LL _DIE_ WITHOUT YOU!”

Soon, he reached the real world. Daylight appeared, and he ran towards it, puffing and wheezing. But in the light he discovered that the ghosts had gone, and he was alone. Panting for breath, he staggered through the doorframe and watched as the other door came closer and closer with every bang. He slammed it shut and locked it as fast as he could. He put his ear against the wood and listened.

The last bang shook the entire wall, and propelled him to the ground.

Then nothing. Not a sound. Not a knock. Not a voice.

The light that came through the window on the other side of the house was daylight, real golden morning sun, not a white mist-light. The sky was a robin's-egg blue, and Louis could see trees and, beyond the trees, green hills, which faded on the horizon into purples and greys. The sky had never seemed so _sky_ ; the world had never seemed so _world_.

Out of breath, his heart still pounding so loud inside his chest, he pulled out the photographs from his pockets. They were all empty, plain white. There was nothing left of them, not even on the newspaper article. And Mr. Walker was still back there.

Before he had time to consider what it might mean, he heard footsteps. He turned his head to the left; the twins were racing to the dining room for breakfast. The smell of crispy bacon reached him in turn, and Hester’s irritating voice called him over; it was time to eat.

He got to his feet, still a bit shaken, and stepped into the dining room. The entire family was there. “You’re back!” he cried.

Hester just frowned in confusion as she fixed a plate for their mother - who seemed to be doing a whole lot better.

“Back from where?”

“But…”

“Why are you dressed already? It’s so early in the morning,” his mother pointed out. “And oh… You’ve a hole in your shirt. What have you gotten up to?”

They didn’t remember anything.

Still, he ran to hug his big sister. She was taken aback by the gesture, but she did not push him away. “Right… Sit down, will you. Hand me your plate.”

*

That night, in his dream, he saw Jane and Victor. They didn’t appear to him as ghosts, but rather in the flesh, like real human beings. The three of them were in a big, beautiful garden, basking in the sun. It was nice and warm, and everyone was happy.

“You’ve freed our souls,” said Jane, whose blonde hair glistened in the sun. In the light, he realized just how pretty she was. “We’re more grateful for it all than words can say.”

“Now we shall rest in peace,” concluded Victor, taking Louis’ hand in his.

“But that means you’re really dead, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, believe me,” said Victor. “I’d sooner choose death over what we had to endure with him. It's a very fine thing you did for us, sir.”

“I’m just pleased it’s all over,” said Louis.

A shadow crossed the faces of Jane and Victor. The girl approached and said, poised and cautious, “It’s over and done for _us_. This is our staging post. From here, we will set out for uncharted lands, and what comes after no one alive can say …”

“There’s a but, isn’t there,” he mumbled. He could feel it, like a raincloud.

“… You’re in danger,” said Victor, looking sorry.

“But how?” he shouted out. “I got you two back. I got my family back. I shut the door. I locked it. What more was I meant to do?”

“It’s the key, sir,” said Jane. “There’s only one. And he shall not rest until he finds it. He hates you. He hasn't lost anything for so long.”

Louis felt like the world was collapsing. “But it’s not fair,” he said, angrily. “It’s just not fair. It should be over.”

Victor and Jane huddled closer and hugged him. “Take comfort in this,” said Jane. “You’re still alive.”

The dream faded away, and was soon replaced with vast nothingness. He woke up with a start and a tight throat.

Downstairs, in the drawing room, there was no one around to hear the little scratching sound that came from behind the big wooden door, like a cat trying to get somebody to open it.It was a hand, whose nails were scraping the wood. Its skeleton fingers found the strength to create an opening big enough for the whole hand to sneak in and land in the drawing room. Five-footed, black-nailed, the colour of bone. It was The Thing’s right hand, and it wanted the key. It moved about the room without making much noise, save for a faint pitter patter as it tried to navigate the house.

Louis sat in his bed with the key clenched in his fist. He wished it would magically disappear, but he knew it wouldn’t, and that if he didn’t deal with it, he would find his way back to him. He had no time to lose, and so he got dressed and sneaked out of the house, crossing the backyard in the middle of the night. He walked towards the forest with a firm step. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he wanted to go far. There was no guarantee it would stop him from finding the key, but as far as he was concerned, he would make it as difficult as possible.

It was cold in the woods. He crossed his arms around his body to keep himself warm, the tiny key clutched in between his fingers. He heard the hooting of an owl somewhere in the trees.

He ended up in some sort of clearing; or at the very least, a place where the trees were much less dense, and basking in the moonlight. In front of him was an old brick well. It would have to do.

What he did not know was that The Thing’s hand had been following him since he’d left home. It was quick, but quiet, and it had been keeping pace with him, about ten metres away. It stopped behind him, right as he was about to throw the key deep in the well. And then, in a skittering, chittering rush, it came. The hand, running high on its fingertips, scrabbled through the tall grass and up on to a tree stump. It stood there for a moment, like a crab tasting the air, and then it made one triumphant, nail-clacking leap onto Louis’ right leg. It crawled up his body at full speed. Louis screamed in horror but did not let go of the key. The hand grabbed his neck, its fingers wrapping around it and squeezing tightly. He was choking; The Thing’s grip was strong and firm, the finger-bones digging inside his flesh, practically crushing his trachea. He fought back, trying to pry the hand away.

His face was all red when he finally managed to do so. He threw the hand on the ground, gasping for air, and then crushed it with his heel. He jumped on it several times, breaking the bones in a satisfying series of crushing sounds, until it stilled.

Out of breath, he held the key out of its reach, eyes gawking at the misshapen form on the ground. He stepped on it one last time for good measure. It hardly looked like a hand anymore. He wanted to vomit.

He moved the heavy wood planks that were covering the well, and threw the key inside, counting the seconds before he heard a muffled splash coming from way down below.Inside, the lining of the well was covered in slimy, slippery algae. If by miracle The Thing’s hand wanted to crawl out, it would most certainly not be able to do so. And so, although disgusted, he grabbed the hand, and threw it down into the well. He hauled the heavy planks back on, covering it as carefully as he could. He didn’t want anything to fall in. He didn’t want anything ever to get out.

*

It was August, just a few weeks shy of the start of the new school year. The weather was magnificent, as if the summer itself were trying to make up for the miserable weather they had been having by giving them some bright and glorious days before it ended.

Since it was so nice, his family decided to have lunch outside. During the summer, and now that his mother was feeling loads better, they’d taken up gardening. Granted, it was nowhere as dazzling as the other garden was, but it was pretty, and full of flowers. The girls were happy, the food was good, and Louis thought to himself that he was really going to miss his family when he’d move to London.

“I forgot the lemonade inside,” said Hester. “Louis, would you-”

“I’m on it.”

He set off towards the house, climbed the stairs to the porch and stopped dead. At his right, sitting on an old rocking chair was Mr. Walker.

“Mr. Walker?” he cried out. “You’re here… But… How come.”

The old man gave him a half-smile. “There are ways out of the other world that even he doesn’t know about.”

“But… What about him, then, is he…?”

“Oh, no worries. It’s over and done for him.”

“Well I’ll be damned. This is great!… why don’t you join us, Mr. Walker, we’re having lunch outside.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Shall we go then? Oh, just a second.”

He ran to get the pitcher of lemonade inside, and then signalled the old man to follow him. He introduced him properly, even though his parents already had an idea of who he was.

The meal was going well.

At least, until a car drove along the paved pathway leading to the manor.

“Ah,” said his mother. “That must be the new neighbour.”

“The new neighbour?” Louis echoed as he got up to have a better look at this newcomer.

“Yes,” said his father. “He’s moving into Apartment A. He’s _bought_ it. A twenty year old, can you imagine?

“Well, apparently, he's an actor,” added his mother.

“An actor.”

The car pulled into the lot, two suitcases tied to its roof with a set of ropes. The door opened,

And out came a young man

With curly hair,

And big green eyes.

He looked at the family from afar,

And greeted them with a wave of his

Right hand.


End file.
